Forever and a Day
by Your Valensi
Summary: A slower take on the events after Deathly Hallows. How Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny realize they are meant for each other.
1. The Good and the Bad

Hermione Granger awoke from a dream – though, as she considered ruefully, it was hardly a dream at all. Only a nightmare could so vividly account for the images that had swam through her mind of that excruciatingly long night at Hogwarts. Memories of hastily-spoken incantations and limp, lifeless bodies flooded her vision until they encompassed her completely.

With all of the strength she could muster, she turned so that she could catch a glimpse of the boy – though hardly a boy anymore – next to her. How the inhabitants of the Wizarding World had lost countless souls over the course of seventeen years, and how she had wholly gained someone in the course of seven.

As she drank in the sight of his untamed locks, the freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose, and the ginger eyelashes that gently rested upon his cheekbones, a wave of peace overcame her. His chest felt lean against her firm touch, and the scars that snaked down his arms seemed to stand out eerily in the moonlight. His brow was furrowed, even in sleep, as it had been in the last year.

She could hardly blame Ron for that troubled expression. Losing his brother was still a fresh wound, resting upon the hundreds of others accumulated in such a short span of time. To Hermione, who belonged to the Weasley family unofficially in all but name, a day without Fred was almost unthinkable. His constant pestering and spontaneous jokes were things that she had grown so accustomed to – and now he was dead.

_Dead_. The word tasted like bile in the back of her throat, but it seemed as if that was the only thing that she could think of in the days that had preceded her. Remus, Tonks, Colin – all dead. And even they were merely a dent in the long list that, for some, twisted reason she had felt compelled to commit to memory. Their faces, lifeless and forlorn, often blinded her until the familiar prickle of tears would sting her eyes.

Ron, appropriately enough, was the antidote to the pain.

* * *

Molly Weasley burrowed under the covers like a child longing to be tucked in. After hours of tossing and turning, and even resorting to glaring at the stream of moonlight that bashfully streamed through an adjacent window, she heaved a great sigh and turned once more – so that she was facing Arthur.

At the sight of his tired face, the corners of her mouth couldn't help but turn upward. He was snoring softly, though she knew that the façade would not last. Arthur had his fair share of sleepless nights, and often roamed their towering home early in the morning, as if blindly searching for something.

"Our son died," Molly whispered quietly, as if admitting the well-known fact would only serve to alleviate the pain.

It didn't.

With a heavy sigh, she fumbled with the covers, careful not to wake Arthur. Tying the knot of her dressing gown, she stealthily made her way out of the bedroom. "Might as well check on the others…" she murmured quietly to herself. Shutting the door quietly behind her, she looked up to the fifth floor, then back down, then up once more. "I'll work my way from the top to the bottom," Molly decided.

Smiling fondly at the worn sign hung on the door of Ron's bedroom, she carefully turned the doorknob, lest she wake anyone. Being on the run for a year – doing Merlin-knows-_what_ – had apparently given Ron, as well as Harry, an acute sense of hearing. The garishly, orange decorations were somewhat dimmed in the moonlight. She could easily make out Harry in the camp bed, pushed away to the corner. A sheen coat of perspiration covered his face and the covers haphazardly tangled his limp body.

Molly arched an eyebrow at the bed a few feet away from Harry's. Lying in it was not merely her son, as she had presumed, but Hermione as well. Tucked into the crook of his elbow, the witch was sound asleep. _How long has this been going on?_ Molly mused silently to herself. Realizing that the image in front of her was almost entirely innocent, she decided to let the matter drop. _At least all hands can be seen..._

The stairs creaked under her slippered feet as she descended to the second floor. If anyone was in the bathroom at this hour, she could always check on her way to her own bedroom. Tightly gripping the banister, she retrieved her wand from the pocket of her robe.

"_Lumos_," she muttered, poking at Percy's door with her wand, surprised to find George _and_ Charlie there. With a grimace, she remembered hardly anyone, save for George himself, ventured into the twins' bedroom anymore. Percy was still in his bed, turned to the side. On the floor lay Charlie and George, both in sleeping bags. Molly frowned at the sight, knowing that the old house was often chilly without a decent blanket. Quietly conjuring one, she levitated it so that it settled on them, before pocketing her wand once more.

_No point in checking that one_, Molly thought to herself, swiftly averting her gaze from the door that stood slightly ajar on her right. With a few, impressive strides, she appeared in the doorway of Bill's bedroom. He and Fleur had chosen to remain at the Burrow for a few days before returning to Shell Cottage. Surely enough, the two lay together in a tight embrace. The sight, all in itself, softened the sharp expression on Molly's face upon seeing her daughter-in-law. Fleur, someone that she could hardly fathom, was something of a necessity to the family. With a wry smile, she noted that Fleur easily influenced Bill in almost all of his decisions – not necessarily with her charm and grace, but with her logic.

It had taken some time to getting used to, but even Molly realized that there was more to the witch than merely her unwavering beauty.

As expected, Ginny was in her bed. _And not in Harry's_, Molly said to herself as an afterthought. With one last glimpse, she closed the bedroom door shut. _Might as well make a cuppa while I'm down here..._

The kitchen was eerily quiet. The faint glow of her wand light guided her to the cupboards, where she retrieved a mug. The kettle, already on the rear burner of the rickety stove, seemed to be waiting for her. Using _Aguamenti_, she filled it with ease and set it back on the burner so that it would boil.

"Biscuits would be nice too," Arthur said wryly, emerging from the darkness of the landing. "I'll fetch them." Prying the lid off of the biscuit tin, he wordlessly summoned a saucer from the open cupboard and generously doled out a few for the two of them. "You're up early, Mollywobbles."

"Couldn't sleep," she murmured, gratefully accepting a ginger biscuit. The kettle whistled and she swiftly silenced it, adding a few teabags to the boiling water.

"Maybe there's something in the air," Arthur suggested softly. He nibbled on a biscuit thoughtfully for a moment. "The funeral is tomorrow."

"We're one step closer to putting this behind us, aren't we?" Molly asked, offering him a warm mug.

"We can't dwell on the inevitable forever, Molly," Arthur said kindly, taking her weathered hand in his. "No matter how badly we want to."


	2. Tallest Man, Broadest Shoulders

"This is impossible," George flatly stated. "This isn't right. He wasn't supposed to go like this. He wasn't supposed to leave _me_. That's why we're twins."

"I know," Bill said quietly. He was trying to console George, like everyone else at the Burrow. He had the most success, though, as he actually got a few sentences out of him. Bill thought of saying all the cliché things- _"It'll be alright", "Everything happens for a reason," "At least he went quickly,", _etc. Instead, he decided to go in a completely different route.

"Did you ever think," Bill began, "That maybe he went instead of you because your stronger? That somewhere, some deity force up in the sky decided that you were better off on your own because you would be able to handle the anguish?"

"Fred was _not_ weak," George said, gritting his teeth.

"I don't mean that," Bill said, quickly continuing. "What I'm trying to say is that, well, maybe Fred dying spared him a pain. Let's just say either one of you had to die that night. If you had died instead of him, what if he wasn't able to carry on? He'd sink into a depression, and he'd experience something more emotionally painful than ever. What if he's happy where he is right now, more than he would have been if _you_ were the one dead?"

"It still hurts," George mumbled.

"I know, and it will. I'd think you were mental if it didn't," Bill responded.

"I guess you're right," George said. George really did find some light in his brother's words. "Thanks for telling me that. I never thought of it that way. Well Fred, if you're listening, you better be bloody thankful that you get the easy way out!"

Somewhere, Fred chuckled.

Bill did too. "Alright little brother, I need to get ready, and so do you. Keep in mind of what I said, and hopefully that will help you move on. And you should, 'cause _someone_ needs to tease Ron and Hermione. I heard they snogged yesterday!"

Despite all the pain, George smiled at the thought of his brother _finally_ making a move on the girl he dreamt about since 2nd year. _Wait until he gets a load of teasing from me and Fr--_, George stopped thinking. His smile fell off his face. Fred was no longer here. And there was nothing he could do about it. He shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of his days without his other half. Everything would be so desolate and dreary, and no one would be able to fix that. Would everyone else began to think or say something, only to stop immediately at the mention of Fred? It was just too painful to think of all the miserable silences that would follow the memory of his beloved brother.

"You okay?" Bill asked, concerned.

"Yeah yeah," George said, waving him off. "Well, like you said, you need to go get ready. I'll meet you guys all downstairs soon."

"Alright.." Bill repsonded, eyeing him a bit before leaving.

George sunk back into his bed, counting dots on the ceiling. _How am I ever going to get through today? I'll probably start bawling the minue they carry out the casket. Who am I kidding? I'm not strong enough. I'm not the strong twin! I never was. It was never 'George and Fred'. It was _always_ 'Fred and George'. Except for now. Now it's just 'George', and I can't stand it! _he thought.

It was going to be a long day.

--

The funeral went well, for the most part. The Weasleys decided to bury Fred at the Burrow, so that he would always be nearby. They chose a small, secluded spot in the humongous yard of the burrow, and magicked a large hole to lower the coffin. Many people came by to pay their respects. All the aurors came, along with large handfuls of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws with their families. They all laid wreaths of wildflowers by the grave.

One little muggle-born girl came up to the grave as well. She laid a single daisy on the grave and said, "My family was killed by Death-Eaters. I am all alone, except for my Mum. She's standing over there. The Death-Eaters never got to her, nor I. Thanks to you, Mr. Fred Weasley. Thanks to you and all of the other brave witches and wizards and Muggles, I am a free girl." Few people heard this little girl's speech, and most of them were Weasleys. Molly sucked in her breath, and tried not to cry. They had finally achieved peace in the wizarding world, and this little girl could finally be safe. But the price Molly had to pay was just too unbearable to think about.

Ginny, after much thinking, decided to wear a pair of bright orange robes that matched her red hair. She remembered how Fred always teased her about them. _You look like a giant orange! Better watch out before Ronniekins eats you! _She smiled at the memory, and wished more than ever he was here. Even if just to tease her, the presence was all that mattered.

As she walked down the stairs, she met startled, disapproving, and strange looks from everyone in the house. However, all of the family members (including Harry and Hermione) kept their opinions to themselves. The only person who gave her the tiniest bit of recognition was George.

"Thanks Ginny," George whispered, as he walked passed her and squeezed her shoulder. "You're making this so much easier. It really means a lot to me. And him." He beckoned up at the sky with his head, before quickly walking away.

Ginny couldn't help but smile. She knew she wouldn't lift everyone's spirits that day, but for a split second she made a difference for someone who really needed it. With that in mind, she walked out of the house and into the yard to pay one of her many respects to her late brother, Fred. With Harry, Ron, and Hermione closely behind her, and the sun shining brightly, Ginny really believed she would survive through this day.


	3. A Picnic For Two

Hermione woke up from her deep sleep, stretched, and yawned. It had been about 3 weeks since Fred's funeral, and slowly the family was moving on. It all started with Molly, who began cooking again. Followed by Arthur, who found a peculiar Muggle contraption called an "alarm clock". He attempted to set it at a certain time to wake him up for work, and ended up waking everyone else at 2 in the morning. Though it irritated everyone, it caused a series of giggles from Ginny and Hermione, which was rare at the Burrow these days.

Hermione found the spot next to her empty. Sometimes Ron would come in the middle of the night to keep her company, and they talked quietly about Fred. Nothing more than that, just the two of them pouring their hearts out. Hermione didn't mind, of course. She loved consoling Ron; it brought them closer. She just wished he would make a move, just like she did during the war. She was desperate to make their new step in their relationship official.

Ron did show his affections though, in special ways. Sometimes he'd stare at her intensely. His mouth would be set into its usual frown of pain, but his eyes smiled when they found Hermione. When he walked past her, his fingertips brushed against her arm, sending an electrifying current through Hermione. At night, when they were alone together (with Ginny of course, as she was sleeping in the same room), sometimes he'd reach over and cup her face in hands. But that was it. All of these things were personal and between the two of them, meaning that no one else seemed to notice. Hermione wanted more, but she didn't want to push him. He was going through a hard time, after all.

As she walked down the stairs towards the kitchen, Hermione continued to think about Ron and their current state. Her thoughts were interrupted as she reached the kitchen, and could already hear Molly preparing breakfast.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said.

"Morning, dear," said Molly, bustling around the kitchen. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

"Thanks. I was wondering where Ron was..."

"Oh, Ron? Why, he's out in the back degnoming the garden. It's very large, you know, and sometimes gnomes hide out farther back. I can't imagine why he'd be doing such a thing at this hour. Perhaps it's to relieve some of the.. pain.. of.. excuse me, dear." Molly dabbed her eyes with a towel.

Hermione never hugged Molly, or at least she never was the first to do it. It was always Molly reaching out to others and comforting them. But seeing Molly like this, clearly in so much pain, Hermione couldn't help but care. She walked over and wrapped her arms around Molly. Molly was taken aback by the gesture, but nonetheless welcomed Hermione's embrace.

"There, there," Hermione whispered. "Fred has passed on, but you still have a family that needs you, and you need them. Stick together, and the pain will pass. Don't cry. I may have not know him for long, but I know for a fact that he was never associated with crying. It was all about laughter when it came to Fred." Hermione pulled away from Mrs. Weasley, somber. "He may not be around the house, but you can still find him here." She pointed to her heart, and offered a smile.

Mrs. Weasley offered a small smile back. "I know, but it gets so hard. And I worry about the children, especially George. But you're right. We must not dishonor his memory. And thank you, Hermione. Your words really brought me a great deal of comfort. You really are the cleverest witch of your age."

Hermione blushed. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I'll go wake Ginny up and we'll be downstairs soon."

Hermione left the kitchen, feeling a bit better. She climbed back up the stairs, and found her way to Ginny's bedroom to wake her up.

* * *

"Hermione," Ron said softly. Standing in the threshold of the door, he leaned nonchalantly against the frame and spoke towards the figure of Hermione, who had her back to him.

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione exclaimed, startled as she jumped a bit. She turned around to face him, all thoughts of reprimanding disappearing as she caught sight of him. "What on _earth_ have you been doing this morning?"

Ron grinned sheepishly. He was muddy, with grass stains on his jeans. He even had a few strands of grass stuck in a lock of his hair. More than anything, Hermione wanted to reach over and pull that blade of grass out of this hair. She controlled herself, though, and listened to what he had to say.

"I was out degnoming the garden," Ron said, running a hand through his hair and removing the grass unknowingly. "Listen, do you want to.. goonapicnic?"

"Beg your pardon?" Hermione asked. "Enunciate your words, Ron."

Ron smiled. Same old Hermione. "Fine," he retorted. "Do... You.. Want.. To... Go... On... A...Picnic?"

"Oh," Hermione whispered quietly as a blush rose up her cheeks. "Well yes, of course. What time will we be going?"

"You really want to go?" Ron said, surprised. "Oh.. ok well, could you be ready around noon? That will give you plenty of time after breakfast to get ready."

"Yeah, sure" Hermione responded. "Any suggestions on what I should wear?"

"Clothes?" Ron said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks," she said sarcastically. "That really helps."

"I'm glad," Ron said, equally sarcastic. "Well.. see you at noon." He left the room and Hermione, who couldn't help but replay their conversation over and over again in their head.

As she fell back onto her bed with a pleasant sigh, Ginny walked into the room. She glanced over her once and her expression immediately became bemused.

"What happened?" Ginny asked. "You won't stop smiling!"

"Ron and I are going on a picnic," Hermione responded dreamily. "Ginny, you need to help me decide what to wear! Oh my god, until noon is hardly enough time to get ready!" Hermione ran to Ginny's closet, where some of her clothes were. She looked through her clothes a few times before turning to Ginny with a hopeless look on her face.

"I'd go with that blouse you have," Ginny said. "The pink one. With that white skirt. And those white shoes."

"Perfect!" Hermione exclaimed. She gathered her clothes and laid them on the bed. She dusted off imaginary lint off her pink blouse. It was V-neck, with sleeves that came up to her elbows. Beads were embroidered into shapes around the neckline. Her skirt was white and fell just above her knees, and flowed and fluttered when she ran. The ballet flats, which happened to be her favorite shoes, were white with dainty little bows. Hermione walked over to the dresser and gathered her makeup bag, filled with all sorts of cosmetics, some barely touched.

"What are you doing?" Ginny inquired, sitting on her bed in her nightgown.

"Trying to find good shades of eyeshadow that much with my outfit. Oh, and I'll need some mascara..."

Ginny snorted. "Oh please, Hermione. We both know my brother's fancied you since second year, and you barely have worn an ounce of make up. So ditch that stuff, and go for the all natural look. It'll drive him crazy." She grinned.

"You think so?" Hermione was hesitant.

"Me, and everyone else on this planet."

"Fine," Hermione said, still blushing. "Thanks Gin. I'm going to go get ready."

"Don't mind me," Ginny called as Hermione walked into the adjoining bathroom. "I don't want to keep your Romeo waiting!"

* * *

"Mum," Ron called, as he knocked on the kitchen door. "Could I ask you something?"

"If I can ask you something first. Why were you degnoming the garden this morning? You _never_ wake up that early! If it's about Fred.."

He scratched his arm uncomfortably, avoiding her penetrating gaze. As if trying to find the perfect explanation, he finally looked up and spoke solemnly. "Everything's about Fred to me, Mum. That's just the way it is."

She stared at him a few moments more, looking hesitant. "Alright, then," Molly responded skeptically. "But if you need to talk to someone..." She trailed off.

He managed to sidestep her comment. "So... anyways, back to my question."

"Yes, Ron, what is it?" Molly asked, as she dusted the countertops.

"Could I borrow the kitchen for say, half an hour?"

Molly put her wand down and her hands on her hips. "Ronald Weasley, for what reason would you need to "borrow" the kitchen?"

Ron sighed. How was he going to explain this to his _Mum_? "Uhm, well.. I sort of, asked Hermione to go on a picnic..."

Molly's face softened at her son's words.

"... and I wanted to make lunch for her and make everything special."

"Oh Ron!" Molly cried, running to hug her son. She began to plant kisses all over his face, euphoric at the thought of him finally finding the courage to pursue Hermione. She gave him a final hug before extracting him from her grasp, her face positively beaming. "It's about time, dear."

His response was lost in the rapid breaths emitted from his mouth as he clutched his abdomen and gasped for air.

Molly's hands found themselves planted on her hips once again. "Honestly, Ronald! Do you have to be _this_ over-dramatic?"

For some strange, barmy reason, his mother's chiding _actually_ made him feel somewhat content. It was something familiar and especially reserved for him. Grinning sheepishly, he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

Today was going to be a good day. He would make sure of it.

* * *

Hermione walked down the stairs, her heart fluttering.

Ron was waiting for her down the stairs. Picnic basket in one hand, blanket in the other. Merlin, he was so cute!

"Ready to go?" He grinned. It melted Hermione's heart.

"Yeah," she said, as they continued walking out the back door. "So where are we going to have our picnic?"

"It's this special spot," Ron said, his ears turning red at the thought of "their" picnic. "It's way out in the back though. I liked going there when I was a kid, when my house got a little crowded. Or when I wanted to avoid Mum and her chores list."

Hermione laughed. "That explains the degnoming then, right?"

"Yeah." Ron tucked the blanket under his arm, so he had one free hand. With it, he grasped Hermione's hand. Hermione was a little shocked. _He's probably going to take his hand back, and say he's sorry, _Hermione thought. _He'll think I'm offended, when really I've been_ dying_ for this to happen_. But Ron did no such thing. He held her hand until they got to his special spot.

Hermione's skirt began to flutter as she watched Ron unfold the blanket. He gestured for her to sit down, and unveiled the lunch he prepared for them.

"Well," Ron began, already nervous. "I made us chicken sandwhiches, 'cause I know you don't care for corned beef. And neither do I. That stuff is repulsive! And everyone likes mashed potatoes, hence, the mashed potatoes. You always reach for fruit at Hogwarts during meals, and I can't understand why. But you _do_ like strawberries, and I like chocolate, which is why we have fresh ones with melted chocolate."

"Ron, this is so sweet!" Hermione exclaimed. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Ron's ears turned a bright red. "Well.. let's eat. Degnoming a garden really builds up an appetite, you know."

Hermione giggled as they ate their lunch. They made small talk, and brought up Fred a few times. It was when they came to the dessert part of their meal though, when things got interesting.

As Hermione took out the fresh strawberries and chocolate sauce out of the picnic basket, Ron quickly tended to the blanket beneath them, which was struggling to fly away due to the wind.

"Hey Hermione," Ron began, "Pass me a strawberry dipped in chocolate, will ya?" He moved things around the blanket to stifle the blanket, and didn't notice the strawberry dangling in front of his face. Just as he was about to grab it, Hermione quickly tapped it against his nose, and ate it herself.

"Mmmmm," Hermione said, as she ate. "That was _really_ good."

"Hey!" Ron said, pretending to be hurt. "That wasn't fair. Do you know what that means?"

"Nope," Hermione said, licking her fingers. "What?"

Ron grinned. "THIS!" He lunged at her, tickling her all over her stomach. Hermione protested, but he used his strength to pin her arms above her head, and tickle her stomach. Hermione's laughter and screams echoed as she tried to make him stop.

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione yelled. "You stop this right now! Or else I will hex you into the next century!"

Her threat caught him off guard for a moment, which she took to her advantage. Swiftly, she rolled over and jumped on him, so she was sitting on his stomach.

"Hmmph," Hermione said triumphantly, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She giggled at the sight of Ron. He had a dainty speck of chocolate on the tip of his nose. She immediately thought of that day on the train, when they were first years. He had dirt on his nose, and she snootily pointed it out to him.

"You know," Hermione began, "You have a bit of chocolate on your nose, right there."

At first Ron didn't get it, but then he broke out into a grin as he remembered that day. Before he could say or do anything, Hermione surprised him and herself. She reached down to his face, and kissed the tip of his nose, removing the chocolate. She sucked in her breath as she quickly realilzed what she had done. When Ron gave no response, Hermione panicked. She quickly got up, dusted her skirt, and sat down away from him.

"I'm sorry Ron.." She began. "I know that came off as weird..."

Hermione stopped in her sentence as she looked down. Ron had taken a bit of chocolate and flicked it on her cheek. Craning his neck, he bent down to kiss her face so sweetly that she practically fainted. She felt like she could hear angels humming in the distance. And with the sun shining brightly, and the grass greener than ever, Hermione felt light. It was the lightest she had ever felt, without a care in the world. No psycho killer to track down, no inanimate objects to destroy, and no wars to take part in. Just her, and this gangly red haired boy who just kissed her hand and made her heart do back flips.

"It wasn't weird one bit, Hermione. It was bloody brilliant."

Hermione blushed as red as Ron's hair. He pulled her into an embrace, and together, they sat on their little blanket in the middle of a picnic. She leaned onto him and put her head against his chest, and listened to his heart beat. He ran his fingers through her hair, and couldn't help but think of Fred. Except it wasn't a sad thought at all. He smiled as he thought that wherever Fred was, he was whooping and hollering at the sight of his youngest brother finally getting the girl. Ron even imagined a few jokes being made at his own expense. For once, he felt truly happy. He had done something right, and it practically made Hermione melt in his arms. It didn't even require any complexities; only the two of them, staring off into the distance, in each other's arms. It was sheer bliss. Ron hadn't felt 'sheer bliss' in a long time. And as he looked down, he grinned from ear to the ear at the sight of what was making him so happy.

"So bloody unreal," Ron said, under his breath.

"Ronald! Don't curse!" Hermione scolded him. Her face softened though, as she softly said, "You're ruining the moment."

Ron broke into laughter, and after staring at him like he was mental for a few seconds, Hermione joined in. Ron reached out for Hermione, and held her in her arms as he continued to laugh.

"You're really something, you know that?" Ron asked, as he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

Hermione murmured an inaudible reply, though she couldn't stop smiling. She snuggled up to him, and thanked every shooting star she wished on for giving her Ronald Billius Weasley.


	4. The Scientist

The seemingly obvious thing to happen would be everything becoming perfect. It was far from it, though. Even though George lost himself in memories of Fred, and Charlie lost himself in working with dragons, and Percy lost himself in guilt over his deceased brother, and Bill lost himself in courting Fleur, and Molly lost herself in cooking for a nonexistent army, and Arthur lost himself in other Muggle contraptions (particularly the electric toothbrush), and Ginny lost herself reading Hermione's romance Muggle novels, and Harry lost himself looking at Ginny every waking moment, Ron and Hermione could not lose themselves in each other.

Hermione still had business to take care of, involving her parents. After living a new life in Australia, Mr. and Mrs. Granger were ready to return home to a much more safer Britain. Too bad they had no idea. Hermione had to go to Australia, remove their extremely powerful memory charm, explain last year's bizarre events in a matter of weeks, and accomplish all of this correctly while being away from Ron. She couldn't even think of that last part. She and Ron had _always_ been together. Always. The school year at Hogwarts, summer at the Burrow.. being apart for more than 2 weeks was absolutely unthinkable.

_Will Ron even miss me?_ Hermione thought, frustrated. _We still haven't had a proper snog. And since when am I so obsessed with snogging?! Sure, the picnic was only 2 days ago, but still.. Maybe Ron is just too upset, because I'm leaving. Or maybe he still is dwelling on Fred's death. Maybe I should start studying for my N.E.W.T.s. I always study Hogwarts material around this time of summer. I might even repeat 7th year, even though I barely had a 7th year. Wait. Why am I thinking about school?! I should be thinking about Ron and our current situation. And how we haven't snogged yet. I mean honestly! It's been 2 whole days!_

On and on, Hermione continued to think like this. She couldn't blame Ron entirely for things, or, the _lack _of them at least. She was too busy packing for Australia, and making plans. After speaking to Kingsley Shacklebolt, she decided for the two of them to meet at the Burrow, travel to the Ministry together, and floo to the Australian Ministry of Magic from there. Hermione had to explain everything to her parents, and she was dreading it. No one else was of much help, either. Then again, none of her friends had put powerful memory charms on their parents, and had to remove them and explain the course of their lives to them, and why they were relocated to an entirely different continent. Hermione wasn't surprised though. She was, after all, probably the most crazy out of her friends. According to Ron, at least. _Oh Ron.._

--

Ron walked Hermione down the stairs, and held her small bag, enchanted to fit her clothes and necessary books.

"I wish you weren't leaving," Ron said, flatly.

"Neither do I. I really have to do this, Ron. I need to fix any relationship my parents and I have left. Plus the rest of the family will be wondering why Mum and Dad haven't been calling for the past year."

"Oh. I understand. Well, not really. I mean I've never wiped Mum's memory. Only a nutter would do that."

Hermione blushed, and Ron grinned, happy he got her to react in that way.

"I just.." Ron started. He never got the rest of that statement out, though, as Molly came walking into the room and calling Hermione's name.

"You got an owl, dear," Molly said, handing her the letter. "I suppose it's a notice telling you to leave now."

"You're right, Mrs. Weasley. I should be going now. I don't want the Minister to wait." Hermione bit her lip as she glanced over at Ron, now sullen.

"Don't worry Ron," Hermione whispered, pulling him into a hug. "I won't be gone for long, and when I come back, we'll be able to spend every single day together."

Ron hugged Hermione back, closing his eyes. He smelled her hair and her skin, wanting to commit every bit of her to memory, so that if he ever needed her, she was only a thought away. "Be safe," He whispered back.

Hermione nodded. She pulled out of his embrace and walked over to the fireplace with her bag. Molly handed her some Floo Powder, wishing her good luck.

"Britain Ministry of Magic!" She said clearly. A burst of green flames enveloped her body, but she didn't shut her eyes as she normally would. Instead, she forced them open as she caught a last glimpse of Ron. His blue eyes were intense, and he was giving her a look that would have made her weak in the knees had she not been flooing. She was gone before she wanted to leave, and before she knew it, she was no longer looking at Ron. Instead, a prim looking witch came forward, dusting off her robes.

"The Minister is expecting you," She said, with a curt nod. "Follow me."

Hermione obeyed. She panicked as she realized how uncertain the next 2 weeks would be. She willed herself to be strong, and with Ron's memory flashing in her mind, she took a step forward.

--

Ron struggled in his bed. His sheets were in a tangle, wrapping themselves around his lanky body. He dreamed the same dream every night. He tried to fight them, but every soft scream and whimper did no good. He could not help but force himself to watch the scene unraveling in his head.

It was the same every single time.

_The Battle of Hogwarts. Death Eaters and 6th and 7th years dueling. Curses being hurled like furniture. A menacing laughter, belonging to Dolohov, Lestrange, and other sadistic freaks like them. A warmth ran through Ron's body as Hermione reached over and kissed him. The same snog, but no Harry. No, "Oi! There's a war going on!" Just them, pressing their bodies against each other, trying to make up for all the lost years where they never expressed their burning desire for each other. Ron's face was pressed into Hermione's, his eyes closed, but the real Ron, the one who was watching all of this caught other things and people that were being ignored in between frenzies of kissing._

_Fred was dueling a Death Eater. He was no match, the curses being hurled at him were that of the evilest Dark Magic. And as he fought to save his life, he desperately wished for some help. Any help. Sometime to spare him. Someone like Ron._

_"Ron! I need help!" Fred called, sounding small. _

_The dreaming Ron saw the whole thing, and as he tried to break up his alter ego and Hermione, they wouldn't budge. Too engrossed in each other for words. "Help your brother!" Ron screamed. "He can't win! You can snog her later! You git, HE NEEDS YOU! He's going to die!"_

_His alter ago paid no attention, and Ron was _forced _to watch his brother die. He saw the crumbled wall fall. "No!" He screamed. "Fred! Don't die! Please! No!"_

_But the damage was already done. Fred had the weight of a think wall on his frail body. He was gone. But Ron wouldn't accept it._

_"You're not dead! No, you can't be! Don't die! Please! Please..."_

--

"Please, no, please.." Ron whimpered in his sleep. He woke up, startled, and unlike most dreams that left him the minute he awoke, this one remained rigid in his head. He could hear the wall crashing, his brother's humble pleas, the sound of his lips smacking against Hermione's...

And he felt disgusted. He was angry at Hermione for leaving him, he was angry at Fred for dying, but most of all, he hated himself. More like _loathed_ himself. If this is what truly happened that night, if Fred or someone else died at his own expense..

Ron couldn't think. He wanted to get up and get a drink of water, but his body was numb. _Why do I deserve happiness? _Ron questioned. _Fred's dead. He deserves to be lying here, sleeping. Not me. I just.. I can't I can't do this anymore._

Ron thought about Hermione. His sweet Hermione. For a few, bliss seconds, he thought about the two of them on their picnic and at Hogwarts. He thought of all the happy times. And then he remembered. He remembered that vile dream, and couldn't even bring himself to conjure Hermione's memory. He was losing it, and was powerless against this demon of a dream that continued to alter his perception. Ron couldn't go back to sleep. Not with that dream waiting to surprise him again.

Ron felt so cold, and so... unwelcomed. He couldn't imagine himself anywhere, or with anyone. It was like every connection he had made was diminishing. His body and thoughts were succumbing to that bloody dream, and throwing him into a spiral of darkness and guilt. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes.

_What am I going to do? Everything seemed so right. Everything was finally falling into place, filling the empty distances. And now it's slowly disappearing. Right before my eyes. I can feel myself slipping away from everyone I care about. I can feel it._

He continued to feel and dream and curse for the rest of the night. That missing presence of the most important person was breaking him, and he couldn't stop the damage already being done.

Ron sighed again, hovering under his blanket. At this moment, he wished he never scoffed at those bright, brilliant stars that flew over the Burrow sometimes. More than anything, he wanted to reach out into the sky, pull one into his view, and wish with all of his heart for this unbearable pain to leave him forever.


	5. Dawn

Hermione was sitting in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, straining her neck to see all the things there. It resembled Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts in a way, with all sorts of abstract objects. The only thing that was missing was a vibrant red phoenix perched on a cage, and a tired looking Sorting Hat. Hermione had not been gone for a long time, but she still found Ron in her thoughts. She tried to distract herself with a golden Gobstones set, but everything reminded her of him. _Everything_. She noticed a small bowl of chocolate frogs, sitting next to some paperwork on the Minister's desk. She immediately thought of their picnic, and blushed deeply.

"Miss Granger." It was Kingsley Shacklebolt, entering the office. His robes were dark and heavy looking, and he swiftly walked across the room, taking a seat at his desk. He was a tall, middle-aged man and a skilled Auror. He was also the Minister of Magic, which all Order members agreed was one of the best decisions the Ministry ever made.

"Hello sir," Hermione squeaked, feeling nervous. Though she was somewhat familiar with Kingsley, she still felt a bit out of place. As she greeted him, she stuck out her hand towards him. He shook it appreciatively.

"Well," He began. "I understand you're here to sort out the situation involving your parents." He opened up a file on his desk, and removed a piece of paper. "Apparently, you cast a powerful charm on them, which gave them the notion to relocate to Australia."

Hermione nodded. The Minister sounded so neutral while he spoke, that she couldn't even tell whether he was angry with her actions or not. A wave of worry ran through her mind, and she bit her lip. Kingsley, who was very much engrossed in the paper, did not seem to notice.

"I will accompany you on your trip to Australia. We're going to apparate into the Ministry of Magic there, where you will be required to sign some papers." It was then that Kingsley looked up, and saw the anxiety on the young witch's face.

"Is something wrong?" He asked, concerned. "Don't worry about the papers. It's simply standard procedure."

"No, Minister." Hermione said. "I'm just a little worried about my parents' reaction. You see, if my Mum and Dad weren't Muggles, they would completely understand the situation. But since they are, I'm afraid the threat of Voldemort won't mean much to them. If I know them well, I'm sure they'll be furious at how I've meddled with their life."

Kinglsey nodded. "That's why I'm going with you, Miss Granger. You will do all the explaining, of course. But if your parents don't find your actions right, I will step in and explain things to them. The presence of the Minister of Magic will surely affect their opinions."

Hermione smiled, feeling grateful. "Will we be leaving soon?"

"Yes, we will shortly." He glanced at the time. "Actually, it'd be best if we left right now. Ready? I assume a brilliant witch like yourself has no trouble with Appartition. Gather your things, Miss Granger. After I notify my secretary, we'll leave immediately."

Kingsley guided her out of his office, and walked to his secretary's desk. After telling her of their plans for the day, he and Hermione were ready to leave. With a small _pop_, they were gone.

* * *

"Welcome to the Australian Ministry of Magic!" A chirpy witch said excitedly, with an Australian accent. She shook Kingley's hand, but practically dropped it at the sight of the young witch standing nervously behind him.

"Crikey, you're Hermione Granger!" She exclaimed. A few other witches and wizards in the large room gave her disapproving looks, and she quickly regained her composure. "Ah, I mean, it is very nice to meet you, young lady. I've heard nothing but good things about you. It's an honor to meet someone so brave." She extended her hand for Hermione to shake. Hermione, blushing ferociously, accepted it and offered her a small smile.

The witch asked Hermione a few mindless questions, which did not clear a bit of Hermione's anxiety. It was not until Kinglsey cleared his throat that the witch realized he was standing there too. "Right," she said briskly. "Follow me."

The Australian Ministry of Magic was not much different from the one back home, Hermione noted. Other than the redundant koala decor, things were pretty much the same. The witch, who's name was Susan, was a temporary replacement secretary for the Australian Minister of Magic. She led Kingsley and Hermione down a long, wide corridor and into her office. Ushering them into two chairs, and seating herself in her own, she summoned some official looking papers and handed them to Hermione.

"These are just forms for you to sign," Susan began, "Miss Granger. Their purpose is to ensure that you are here to remove the complex memory charm you placed upon your parents. The Ministry is not responsible for any negative occurrences that may happen during this process. But then again, being who you are, I am sure you'll find no problems." She handed Hermione a pen, who was furrowing her brow a bit as she read the papers and signed them.

"There is a set of instructions on this sheet," Susan explained. "The minister will accompany you to your parent's house. The two of you will wear Muggle attire, which I will supply in case either of you need it. Miss Granger, your parents go by the name 'Gardiner' here in Australia. Your mother took up baking after she moved here. Though contrary to her dentist associated beliefs, she makes a wonderful pavlova. She recently won a citywide baking competition for her strawberry and wine gum pavlova, and you will pose as a young intern from a local newspaper, wanting to interview them. Kingsley will be the photographer. When the two of you arrive at their home, it'd be best to stun them with wand less magic, and then perform the spell to remove their memory charms."

Hermione tried to digest everything Susan was saying. The plan seemed foolproof, but she could have easily come up with one on her own. The _real_ problem was attempting to explain to her parents what she had done and why. She was feeling so scared, thinking that no explanation could make up for her parents' lives that were so drastically changed. Hermione only nodded at Susan's words, and didn't notice when Susan had finished speaking and both her and Kingley were looking at her, confused about her silence.

"Are we ready to go to the Granger's home?" Kinglsey asked, his voice filling the emptiness of the room. Hermione shook her head yes, and Susan handed her a card which contained Mr. and Mrs. Granger's address, among other personal information.

"Best of luck to you," Susan said, offering Hermione a smile.

* * *

Hermione could not help but smile despite the situation, as she fixated her eyes on the modest two-story home in front of her. It was exactly as she would have imagined it: clean and maintained. The house was a lovely shade of blue, similar to Ron's eyes. At the thought of Ron, Hermione's chin quivered and she sighed, hoping she would return to the Burrow soon. The garden out in the front yard was neat and the grass was trimmed. It was unbelievable how meticulous her parents _still_ were even after having their memories tampered with.

"Muggles never cease to amaze me," Kingsley stated, startling Hermione with his deep voice. He approached the garden and caressed a lilac hibiscus. "An old spell will do to keep this alive in the Wizarding world, which almost makes it lose its specialty. The Muggles.. they care. They care, even if it's just with a watering can and some fertrizer."

Hermione, touched by Kingsley's insight, didn't even bother correcting him with the word 'fertilizer'. She felt good to be associated with something viewed so highly by the former Auror. For a moment, she forgot to dwell on her nerves. But as Kingley walked up the lane leading to the front door and attempting to adjust his camera, Hermione once again became anxious. She took a deep breath, followed Kingsley's suit, and vowed to make up for the lost years.

* * *

"Hello." A middle-aged woman had answered the door Hermione just knocked on. Hermione blinked and stifled a gasp. Her mother looked almost the same, except with a few more wrinkles. She looked stylish and attractive in a comfortable pair of pants and a buttoned up blouse. "Your must be Mira, the young intern from the newspapers."

"Mira" was still shocked by the sight of her Mum. She felt a frenzy of emotions and resisted the urge to embrace her, knowing that would ruin the entire plan. She managed to nod, and introduced Kingsley. "This is.. the photographer."

"Right," said Mrs. Granger, eyeing her curiously. She did feel a bit suspicious, but shook off the feeling and invited the young girl and the photographer into her home. "Excuse me for a moment. I'll go fetch my husband."

She called out her husband's name with her back turned on her guests. Kingsley gave Hermione a slight nod, indicating it was time to stun them. _"Stupefy,"_ they murmured softly, knocking the woman down. Her husband had just walked into the room, but was stunned within seconds.

Kingsley immediately set to work, mutter incantations under his breath. After concentrating for a few seconds, he looked up at Hermione. "I've modified their memories, Miss Granger. When they are no longer stunned, they will remember you. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Minister," Hermione managed to say. She had been dreading this moment, but she could no longer delay the chaos ensured to follow.

* * *

The middle-aged couple who crumpled to the floor only minutes ago was standing again. The only difference was that now, they too were strangers in their own home. As they looked around the room, taking no notice of their daughter and the Minister, they glanced at photos and memorabilia that they didn't remember creating. Mrs. Granger, sensing the presence of people in this unfamiliar home, turned around and found herself face-to-face with her daughter.

"M..Mum?" Hermione whispered, reaching out to touch her mother's face. "Do you remember me?"

"Hermione?!" Her mother shrieked, incredulous. "What on Earth.. what is happening?! Where are we? Who owns this home? And who are _you_?" She gestured towards the Minister, clearly confused. Her husband staggered towards the group, equally confused.

"Mum," Hermione said, keeping her voice steady. "Nothing is out of order. We are all in Sydney, Australia. The two of you have been living here for the past year. And this is the Minister of Magic back home. His name is Kingsley Shacklebolt."

At the mention of his name, the Minister bowed his head.

The proper thing Hermione would have expected her Mum to do was to shake the Minister's hand and ask him how he was. Or at least bring out a plate of crumpets and tea. But Hermione's mum hardly looked proper. In fact, she looked a little crazed, slowly taking in each word Hermione said. Australia. Living. Past. Year.

"Now hold up a minute," Hermione's father said. "How is _anything _in order?! What's all this talk about Australia? And how are we living here? And where have _you_ been?"

"Just give me a few minutes to explain," Hermione responded. "Or maybe a few hours," she muttered under her breath. Sighing, she lead both of her parents to a sofa in the living room.

"Do you guys remember who Voldemort was?" Hermione inquired.

"That nutter that liked to kill people for the hell of it?" Her father said, his eyes growing wide. "Young lady, what does he have to do with you?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "He had everything to do with me."

At this statement her parent's eyes grew wide. Hermione's father started to get up, but Hermione held a hand up to indicate for him to sit back down.

"Let me start from the beginning. You do remember Harry and Ron, correct?" Not waiting for her parents to respond, she continued. "Well, this Voldemort wizard was resurrected, and all of his followers, called Death Eaters, escaped from the Wizarding prison called Azkaban. They began a rampage, killing Muggles and anyone who associated with them. You see, he wanted ultimate power, even going as far as taking over the Ministry and performing certain curses on workers there for them to do their bidding unknowingly."

It was here that Hermione paused. Very few people knew about Voldemort's Horcruxes, and Hermione even doubted that Kingsley was aware. Though she was there when everything happened, she wasn't sure if it was her story to tell.

"What does Voldemort have to do with us?" Hermione's mother said. "Your father and I.. we aren't even.. you know.. magical."

"That's why he had things to do with you," Hermione began. "He knew that I was Harry Potter's best friend, and that I was Muggle-born. I knew that he would make you and Dad targets for murder, to hurt me. That's why you're here. In Australia. I had to put a memory charm on the two of you to make you two think that moving to Australia was something you always wanted to do. That way, Voldemort would never be able to find you. He hardly even ventures out of Europe. It was for you two to be safe."

Hermione's father's face turned red, and he became very angry. This time, when he stood up, Hermione braced herself and didn't stop him. "Well then, young lady. You're making all this talk about keeping _us_ safe. Where did _you_ relocate _yourself_?"

"I stayed back home," Hermione responded. She bit her lip, knowing this wasn't exactly honest. "Well, actually, I accompanied Harry and Ron on this.. mission. We were trying to find Voldemort, or things that would help destroy him." She knew she was being around the bush, but she couldn't just come out and say that Voldemort placed his soul into different objects they had to kill.

"Unbelievable!" Her father shouted. "This man is after you, and other people, and you _chase_ after him?! How could you be so irresponsible?!"

"I had to!" Hermione said, but her father cut her off.

"You had to do NOTHING! This isn't even your job! You were probably only seventeen at the time! And what about this "Minister" bloke over here!" Her father pointed a finger at Kingsley. "Didn't _he_ do anything about this?!"

At this point, Kingsley stepped forward. "Sir," He began, "I was not Minister at the time. I was an Auror, a wizard that pursues Dark wizards and places them in the Wizarding prison. However, all of my bosses were either working for Voldemort, or being placed under a curse called Imperius to de their bidding, as your daughter mentioned."

"Imper-what?" Hermione's mother asked.

"Imperius Curse," Kingsley responded. "When you cast this curse upon a person, they are under your control, and must do everything you ask them to do. It is possible to go against the curse, and essentially try not to obey their orders, but very few people can master such control over their bodies."

Kingsley continued. "The entire Ministry was practically corrupt, you see. Everything had to be done stealthily, or else the chance of getting killed would become a reality. Albus Dumbledore, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who is now deceased, started an organization quite a while ago. It was called the 'Order of the Phoenix', and all of the wizards and witches who joined this organization were devoted to protecting innocent people and overthrowing Voldemort and his followers."

"That _still_ doesn't answer my question," Mr. Granger said angrily. "Why is it my daughter's job to chase after crazy murderers? Surely this little Phoenix club could have done something."

Hermione became very angry. Her father was treating this entire situation like a game. "Dad," Hermione hissed. "Do you _not_ understand the seriousness of this situation? People were _dying_, and we had to help. I _wanted_ to help. My best friend, Harry, needed to kill this wizard, or at least overthrow him. And I was his best friend. If you two had stayed back home, you would have died. No doubt about it."

"I knew that this wizard nonsense school was a horrible idea!" Her father yelled, completely ignoring what she said. "We should have never sent you there! What did we even get out of it? Inquiries from our neighbors and getting our memories fuddled by our own daughter! _And_ having to abandon our normal life to come to _Australia_? We had lives at home, Hermione! That is it! You _won't_ be going back to this nonsense Wizard world!"

Hermione began to protest, but her father would not hear of it.

"No!" He shouted. "You go upstairs right now, young lady, even though this blasted house is not truly ours!"

"I am," Hermione began, calmly, "eighteen years old. I am an adult in _this _world and in the Wizarding world, and you will _not_ tell me what to do. I saved your lives, whether you like it or not, and you two ought to be extremely grateful. Because of me, and all the other wizards and witches who suffered and died, you can be safe. You can be certain that no Dark wizard will come to your house and torture and kill you. As for resuming my life as a Muggle, that is impossible. I'm a witch, whether either of you like it or not. And I will continue to live in the Wizarding World. I _will_ go back to school and complete my education. And I _will_ get a job. All I wanted to do was reconcile with you. I expected this shouting match, but not for you two to be so narrow-minded and not understand the pain and suffering I went through this passed year. And all to save your lives. Of course, that's not important as your bloody dentist office now, is it?" Hermione finished her rant, her teeth clenched and her fists shaking. She expected to cry, but she never thought she would be so furious. Furious enough to do something rash.

Suddenly, Hermione didn't care anymore; her blood was practically boiling. She whirled around, stomped out of the house, and slammed the door behind her. She wasn't even aware if Kingsley or anyone was following her, all she knew was that her feet started to move faster and faster until they were running. Running to some unknown place. As her legs carried her farther and farther, her eyes began to blur and burn. They were rimmed with tears, which turned into sobs. She started to cry. She cried for what she did to her parents. She cried for leaving Ron. She cried for making a fool of herself in front of the Minister. She cried for all of her problems which were far from being solved. But most of all, she cried for the disintegrating relationship she had with her Mum and Dad, whom she always thought would be by her side.


	6. Glory

"Great," Mrs. Granger muttered. "Just great. Did you have to tell her off like that? She just ran away!"

_"Me?!_" Hermione's dad said. "Your daughter just happens to mess with our memories and move us to Australia, and you're mad at _me_?!"

"Well, of course," Hermione's mother responded, matter of factly. "I _am_ angry with you. May I ask you this, Jack? While our daughter was explaining her actions and what had happened to her over the year, were you actually listening?"

Mr. Granger said nothing, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mrs. Granger continued. "Because it seems to me that you were doing no listening whatsoever. Jack.. she was doing it to save our lives. I've talked to Arthur Weasley. I've had the Quibbler mailed here a few times. I've read the interviews. Dear, we were in danger. All she wanted to do was protect us."

Mr. Granger, though momentarily moved by his wife's words, still continued to sulk. "_What _did she have to protect us from, hm? Like you said, we aren't even magical! We have no business with this Voldemort fellow! Why would he possibly be after us?"

Kingsley stepped forward, intending to do what he promised Hermione. "Voldemort," Kinglsey began, "is _not_ someone you meddle with."

Mr. and Mrs. Granger, forgetting about Kingsley's presence entirely, were startled when they heard him speak.

Kingsley continued. "He hates Muggle-borns, like your daughter, especially those who attend Hogwarts. Or any Wizarding school, for that matter. Calls them "mudbloods". It's a dirty, derogatory term, but it is what he viewed your daughter as. He believed that wizardry was a noble thing, that only Pure Bloods should have been able to practice. Pure Bloods are wizards and witches that essentially have, pure blood. Their families have no Muggle relatives in their family. It's all rubbish, of course, because families would die out if they didn't marry Muggles. Voldemort, however, has been on a violent rampage ever since he was resurrected. If someone was in his way, he'd have them killed. If someone was associated with his enemy, they'd be killed too. These were dark times. No sir. You do _not_ meddle with Voldemort."

Mrs. Granger shot her husband an 'I-told-you-so' look. He simply looked sheepish.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Kingsley said. "I must go find your daughter."

Mr. and Mrs. Granger immediately stood up.

"With all due respect, I think I should go alone. I will bring her back here, and we will all talk about this in a calm manner. I suppose if I bring backup.. we just need to make Hermione feel safe and welcome."

Mr. Granger wanted to protest. Who was this Minister fool to go chase after his little girl? Mrs. Granger, as if reading his mind, restrained him. "Go ahead," She said. "Jack and I will wait here. Please, if you do find Hermione, persuade her to come back home. We're still in a bit of a shock, you see. But Hermione deserves none of our anger."

Kingsley nodded with a serene smile on his face in response. "You two raised a wonderful girl.." He said this to himself, almost as a reassurance. With another nod, he was gone.

* * *

Harry felt content at the Burrow. It was the first summer where he didn't have to return to the Dursleys, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Plus, Ginny's presence was an added bonus. Harry often wondered why he didn't notice her. She was pretty hard to ignore. She had a fiery personality, and a temper to match. No one ever got away with insulting Ginny. Either they faced the wrath of her famous Bat Bogey Hex, or her equally painful screams as she hurled words at them. But when Ginny showed compassion, and when she exposed her caring side, Harry couldn't help but think that her alter ego was trying to break free. She _cared_. She wasn't like those other mindless girls that got lost in superficial things. Ginny was intelligent. Not as intelligent as Hermione, of course. But she knew things, and she could sense feelings. Whenever Harry brooded, Ron and Hermione would usually steer clear, giving him his "space". With Ginny, it was entirely different. She'd barge into his room and tell him to snap out of it, showing her fiery side. And then she'd cup his face with her hands, and look into his green eyes with her brown ones. She would softly ask him what bothering him, and her voice would drop to an almost inaudible whisper. She'd comfort him and channel this peace into him. This is when her nurturing side was exposed. It was rare at times, but when Ginny exposed it, it made Harry feel infinite and light.

Her looks made her stand out, too. Though she wasn't tall like some of her brothers, she still had the same, fiery red hair. And while most people thought it was a burden to stand out to much, Harry loved it. He loved it because even in a room full of Weasleys, his eyes went straight to her. Her hair cascaded down her back, and it was straight. But it still had waves in it, and when she pushed her hair back nonchalantly, Harry practically melted at the sight of her beauty. Her face was pale, and spotted with dainty freckles that Harry vowed to one day count. Her frame was small and petite, but it never fooled Harry for a minute. She was tough, and stood up for herself.

Basically, she was perfect. And Harry couldn't get enough of her. Even when he was wide awake, his eyes swimmed with vivid images with her. He was sad and felt guilty about deaths. There was no doubt about; he didn't even blame _Voldemort_. In Harry's perspective, things were his entire fault. Sometimes his thoughts started with _"If only I got their sooner" _or _"If only I had disarmed him before"_. But when Ginny gracefully walked by him, every agonizing thought went away, and all he felt was peace.

* * *

Kingsley apparated outside the Burrow, smoothing out his robes. He softly knocked on the door leading into the kitchen, and came face to face with a busy Mrs. Weasley.

"Why, Kingsley!" Molly exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. "I didn't know you were planning on stopping by. Would you like some tea?" Molly said this all, already walking towards the kettle and setting some tea on the stove.

The Minister smiled in response. He knew better than to refuse the tea; it was already being served. "Thank you, Molly. Actually, I came by to see your son and Harry."

"Well, there's only one Harry around here," Molly responded. "But as for 'son'.. I'm afraid you'd have to be a bit more specific." She smiled, and set down a cup of tea for him.

"The youngest Weasley," said the Minister. "Ronald, of course."

"Nothing too dire, I hope?"

"Not at all, Molly."

"They haven't done anything wrong?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"No spells gone haywire?"

"Fortunately, no."

"No stolen flying cars?"

"What?"

"Nothing," Molly said, smiling at the memory. She was so angry when Ron stole that car, and even sent him a Howler to prove her point. And looking even beyond that, when the twins and Ron left the Burrow in the middle of the night to rescue Harry. The twinkle in Fred's eyes when they returned home, and he thought they wouldn't get caught after all. That twinkle was gone now, the flame distinguished with his life. Molly fought the urge to cry. She had been fighting the impulse ever since Fred died, and the Minister of Magic himself sitting in her kitchen did not help one bit. Her smile faltered a bit, but she quickly snapped out of her sadness.

"I don't think the boys are doing anything today. You will probably find them in their room. I'll go call them and-"

Kingsley held a hand up. "No need to worry, Molly. I will do it myself; you don't need to go through any trouble at all. Excuse me." He sipped the rest of his tea, and stood up. Bowing his head, he left the room and made his way to Ron's bedroom.

* * *

A soft knock on the door interrupted Harry's thoughts. Harry glanced over at Ron, who was sleeping on his bed and looked restless. His clothes were disheveled, as well as his hair, and he looked sweaty and cold. Harry often heard whimpers in the night, but dismissed them as either his mind playing tricks on him, or the results of his own occasional nightmares. It was not that he didn't want to help Ron. Of course he wanted to help him. He was his _best_ mate after all. But Harry was usually the one caught up in these types of predicaments, not Ron. He didn't know how to comfort Ron, probably because he never received it himself. The Dursleys would address it, but in the harshest manner. Uncle Vernon would tell him to shut up; the racket was making sleep for the rest of the household impossible. Harry would try to "shut up", but that too, was impossible.

Nonetheless, Harry knew who could solve this problem.

Hermione.

Maybe it was a female instinct, but Harry knew that if he had this problem, Ginny would fix it. Her mere presence would fix it. She was something very special, and her effect was so valuable to Harry. It was the same for Ron and Hermione, and Harry couldn't help but think that the sooner Hermione returned to the Burrow, the better.

Another knock came from the door, and Harry got up, swung his legs around to the edge of the bed, and walked to answer it. He rubbed his eyes a bit, but was startled when Kingsley Shacklebolt came into focus.

"_Minister_?" Harry asked, incredulously. "Is something wrong?"

"Nice to see you to, Harry," Kingsley said, chuckling. Harry found his quirky remarks somewhat similar to Dumbledore's. It was all a bit strange, because his first impression of the man was that he was quiet and kept to himself. Around the Burrow, he was quite the opposite.

"Actually," he said, "I could use your help in something."

Harry sighed. He didn't mean to, but the thought of another Voldemort rising and more Horcruxes to find and leaving Ginny again made him feel less than eager to help.

Kingsley must have sensed Harry's anxiety, because he quickly shook his head. "No, no, Harry. You are mistaken. This regards no dark Wizards, only your friend, Hermione Granger."

"Hermione?!" Harry echoed, worriedly. "What happened to her? Is she alright?"

"It's a bit of a long story. I wanted to wake up Mr. Weasley, as well. _Ronald_ Weasley." He motioned towards the bed to emphasize himself.

"Er.." Harry began. He couldn't tell the Minister about what was happening to Ron. He would no doubt retell the information to Mrs. Weasley, who'd go mad. "Ron's a bit out of it, sir. You see, he barely got any sleep these past few nights." Well, that _was_ somewhat true. "If this task is going to wear him out, I think it'd be best if he stayed home."

Kingsley considered this, before answering Harry. "You do know him better, Harry. I shall take your word for it. Well then, shall we leave this room and talk somewhere else? I don't want to disturb Ronald." After speaking, he slowly walked out of the room, and into another one across the hall. The Burrow was old, and dilapidated. The only thing that was holding it up was magic. _A lot_ of magic. But rooms were always available. They may be tiny or unkempt, but they were always there.

Kingsley conjured two chairs for him and Harry, and beckoned for the young man to sit down.

"Is Hermione okay?" Harry couldn't contain his worry.

"Physically okay, yes, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," he corrected. "What happened?"

Kingsley settled into his chair, contorting his body into a pose. Harry knew this pose very well. It usually meant Kingsley was going to tell Harry a _very_ long story. "You're friend, Hermione Granger needed to go to Australia to remove her parents' complex memory charms. I accompanied her, to assist her with this tedious task. We were to pose as an intern and a photographer from the local newspaper. Hermione began to explain to her parents, but her father became very angry. He, according to Hermione's accusations, did not understand the seriousness of the war and the situation. He ordered for her to remain in the Muggle world. Your headstrong friend stood her ground, of course, and ended up leaving her parents' temporary home. I do not know where she is, and truth be told, I feel as if I am imposing in this delicate situation. I would like for you to return to Australia with me, only to straighten this entire situation out. You will return soon, Harry. The days are not an issue. I wanted Mr. Weasley to come along as well, but if his exhaustion is severe, so be it. Of course, I cannot proceed without your consent." Kingsley cleared his throat after ending his short speech, and waited politely for Harry's answer.

"Mr. Shacklebolt-" Harry began, but was interrupted by Kingsley.

"_Kingsley_," he said. "Mr. Shacklebolt is a very old man, and I," he gestured towards himself, "am not. My wife may disagree, but I wouldn't want to venture into that territory."

"Er- _Kingsley_," Harry said. "Of course I'm going to go! She's my friend, and she's been away from her parents for the longest time. I wouldn't want their relationship to become.. well, finished."

"Very well," said Kingsley, smiling. "We'll have to notify Molly, of course.."

"You could say it's Ministry business."

Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

"Well it _is_," Harry said, flushing a bit. He didn't want to come off as a compulsive liar on the first personal meeting with the Minister.

"I'll take care of it, and consider your suggestion. Why don't you meet me outside? I suppose we'll have to use Side-Along Apparition. Give me a few moments, and I'll go speak with Molly." He got up, bowed his head slightly, and left the room.

Harry groaned inwardly. He hated Side-Along Apparition. But for the sake of Hermione, he was willing to do anything.

Except for Potions with Snape.


	7. White Night

Harry barreled down the stairs. He had his wand with him, and has slipped on one of his Christmas jumper's from Mrs. Weasley. He contemplated on bringing the Invisibility Cloak, but Harry wasn't sure if advertising the fact that he had one of the Deathly Hallows was such a good idea. Even if it _was_ Kingsley.

He stopped short of the kitchen, where he could hear low voices. Molly had one hand placed on her hip, and the other over her mouth, nodding. Kingsley was explaining something, and he looked a bit tired. Not in the sense that he needed sleep, but in the sense where he needed to get away from Mrs. Weasley's interrogation. Harry deliberated on leaving them be and waiting in the back, but his thoughts were cut short when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hi." Her brown eyes bore into him, practically melting Harry right there. She pulled Harry away from the kitchen and dragged him into a secluded corner, before standing on her toes to give him a kiss. It was slow and sweet. Ginny's kisses always matched with her mood, and right now she felt like there was no rush on this lazy summer day. Harry kissed back, running his fingertips softly through her hair, his face turning towards hers. He wrapped his arms attentively around her waist, and she wrapped hers around his neck. Harry lost himself in her, until he remembered Kingsley, and the news of Hermione.

"Wait." He stopped the kiss, and Ginny looked at him expectantly. "I have to go."

The look on Ginny's face was not of anger, but of sadness. He could feel her body sag and crumple, as if she was slowly drifting away. Her face withered a bit, as she processed this information. Those four words could have ripped her apart, and it was an internal battle she struggled with. She couldn't bear to have Harry gone.

"No, no," Harry reassured her, smoothing her hair back. "It's only for about a day, you see. Kingsley wanted me to go with him to see Hermione in Australia. Her parents and she had a bit of a row."

"For a second there..." Ginny whispered. "I thought it was 7th year all over again."

"No," Harry said firmly. "I could never do that to you. I could never break you like that." His voice started to crack as he enveloped her in a hug, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"Why do you need to go?" Ginny asked. It wasn't a question of annoyance or disappointment; she was merely curious.

"I reckon Kingsley wants someone Hermione is familiar with to be there. Someone who also was with her that entire year."

"I understand," Ginny said. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Ginny wasn't going crazy at the thought of him leaving. He loved how she was so supportive.

"What about Ron?" Ginny asked.

"What about him?"

"Uhm, he was there _too_." She rolled her eyes and giggled.

"Ron's sleeping. I'm worried about him. I don't know if he'll have the stren-"

"Take him." It was more of an order than a request. Ginny's voice was firm and filled with authority. "Hermione needs him. Don't you see? He's her... he's her white knight."

Harry snorted.

Ginny glared.

"Her white knight, eh?" said Harry, still trying not to laugh.

Ginny ignored his amused voice. "_Yes_," she said. "And don't you dare laugh, Harry Potter. I know those looks you give me when I walk by."

Harry's mouth fell open. Ginny smirked, but her face abruptly softened. "Look, Harry..." She traced circles on his cheek with her fingers. "Not taking Ron would be a big mistake. For starters, he'd curse me into oblivion for letting you go without him. _Then_ I'd have to unleash my Bat Bogey Hex, just for payback. _Then_ Mum would find come running to us after hearing Ron's mangled screams. _Then_ he'd come after you. And the same thing will happen again. Except maybe Hermione will play the role of Mum." She smiled at the thought of that. "As for those looks you give me, how do they make you feel?"

Harry blushed ferociously. "Safe, I guess. Like, for just that one minute, there isn't anything to worry about. It's just me, seeking you out and finding you and feeling like I've caught the tiniest Snitch in the world."

Ginny nodded, beaming. "I feel the same things when I see you, Mr. Potter." Ginny's voice had once again dropped to a whisper. Her fingers moved to his ears, touching them softly. Harry closed his eyes at her touch." When Fred died, I didn't want to... I didn't want to live anymore."

Harry's eyes shot open. Ginny nodded again, except her expression had changed completely to one of sorrow and unbearable pain. "And when Hagrid carried you out, bawling... I just couldn't take it anymore. I didn't even feel rage and anger at Voldemort and those scum Death Eaters. All I felt was emptiness. Emptiness only _you_ could fix. But you were "dead"." Her voice had turned bitter at this point.

"And then I hear that you're _alive_?!" Ginny was hysterical. "Oh Merlin, I was about to curse _you_ into oblivion. I remember walking up to the dormitory, muttering things like 'bloody git' and 'tosser' under my breath. Paired with the occasional thought of suicide. Mind you, I was a _very_ hormonal teenager. Anyway, I saw you. You were sleeping in your bed like there was no bloody tomorrow. And I realized that _this_ is what I was waiting for. That's why every time I walk by you, a little bit of pain goes away. I don't know where, but all I know is that the second I see you, I remember why I'm here. I know that _you _are the reason that I'm alive. Because, really, it would be a shame if we never gave this a shot."

Harry was stunned by Ginny's confession. She had never revealed this much to him. In fact, he always pictured her like a rock that was unbreakable. That didn't change the fact that he always tried to protect her from anything that could harm her. Still, he couldn't believe she already was essentially broken. The name-calling and the taunts never bothered Ginny; it was betrayal, and being abandoned. And Harry had done both. Fred had too, but it wasn't his fault. He didn't have a choice. Harry did, on the other hand, and as he once again grasped Ginny and pulled her into his arms, he vowed to never give her any notion to regret that decision. He stroked her hair and tried to channel all the words he ever wanted to say into her. He knew one day he'd have to tell, though. She had already broken down so many barriers telling him this much. But for the next few minutes, all he wanted to do was this. He lifted her head up, and saw that her eyes were still closed. Her cheeks were rosy and her lashes were sticky. Harry brushed away a tear, and leaned in to kiss her.

There was no teasing, no tongue action involved. It was only Harry and Ginny, translating their feelings of despair and hurt into each other. They were two broken souls. But as they continued to slowly entwine, they found themselves joining together as one. Already marked before by death, Harry could understand how she was feeling after Fred's death. But he couldn't fathom how she kept herself together like she was doing right now. His ears practically turned pink at the thought of how _he_ was the reason she wasn't falling to pieces. A broad grin erupted over his face as he kissed her, and that feeling came back to him as he inhaled the scent of her sweet smelling hair. It was the feeling of catching the snitch. The feeling of conjuring a Patronus, and actually believing in that memory of his parents. The feeling of looking into that Mirror of Erised. Only one word could be used to describe this sensation. Infinite.

Harry pulled away from Ginny slowly.

"I'll go wake up Ron."


	8. A Decade Under the Stars

Hermione sighed. She sat down on a patch of grass, and leaned against a tree. A sign far up ahead told her she was in Hyde Park. Normally, she would have appreciated such a beautiful sight. The trees were a rich green, and wildflowers were growing everywhere. A few couples were wandering up and down the path, completely oblivious to her meltdown. She felt embarrassed and disappointed with herself. If her parents disliked her before for messing with their memories, they would certainly hate her now for acting so immature and running out of the house. Her face turned hot as she realized all of this happened in front of Kingsley, the bloody Minister of Magic! Any chances of getting a job without N.E.W.T.s were now down to zero, especially since he witnessed Hermione completely falling apart. Hermione buried her face into her hands and moaned. She lost herself in the intoxicating scent of all the lush plants and a song playing nearby.

A Muggle couple not far away was dancing. In the middle of a park! The couple looked about the same age as Hermione and Ron. The boy had brought a portable radio and fiddled with the knobs before finding the appropriate station. He grinned at the girl, and extended his hand. She pretended to consider taking it, before he finally tugged her into his arms and they fell into sync, dancing to a song.

_When I first met you I was cold. A melting snowman I was told. But there was no one there to hold. Before I swore that I would be alone forever more. Wow, look at you now. Flowers in the Window, such a lovely day. And I'm glad you feel the same. 'Cause to stand up in the crowd, you are one in a million, and I love you so let's watch the flowers grow..._

Hermione glanced up from her sitting place and drank in the whole scene. A few other Muggles, smiling at the young couple, stepped out of their way as they continued to dance. The boy dipped the girl a few times, and let her go. But every time she nearly fell, he would swiftly catch her. She'd press herself to his chest, and lovingly wrap her arms around his neck. He smiled and smelled her hair, and breathed in contentment. After staring at them dumbfounded for a few minutes, Hermione bitterly turned away, so her back faced them. She sighed, and as she silently cried, she reached for her small beaded bag. The sun was shining brightly, and Hermione removed her small, short sleeved cardigan, revealing a thick-strapped tank top. She never showed this much skin, but to hell with it. It was hot. She stuffed it into her bag, and was about to zip it up until something caught her eye.

She slowly picked it up, taking a deep breath. She ran her fingers over the threadbare neckline. She remembered crying into this shirt, smelling it every time her head pressed to his chest... she even poked fun at him a few times for wearing it. Never in a million years would she think that an orange Chudley Cannons T-shirt packed into her bag by a forlorn boy would make her happy. But it did. This tender act of kindness nearly threw her over the edge as she clutched the fabric to her face and breathed Ron in. It smelled like grass, with a faint scent of a buttered scone lingering in the background. Before she knew what she was doing, she pulled the large T-shirt over her head, and hugged her knees to her chest. She glanced at her watch. She'd have to return home soon, before her parents called the Natural Guard and Kingsley summoned the entire Auror department. But right now, all she wanted to do was sit here and let Ron's smell linger over her body. As she silently continued to cry both tears of joy and sadness, she watched the Muggle couple whirl around in a dance that she knew was taking them away to a better place.

* * *

Ron and Harry waited in the garden for Kingsley to come outside. It had been a little over 5 minutes since Harry had woken up Ron and explained the situation regarding Hermione. At first, he was grumpy, but the minute 'Hermione need us' was mentioned, he practically jumped out of bed and quickly changed. Harry smiled as Ron had clumsily put his trainers on, before falling over backwards. He even mentally kicked himself for even _thinking_ of leaving Ron behind. Harry and Kingsley's presence combined would help Hermione, but Ron alone could soothe her enough to draw happiness.

Harry spotted Kingsley leaving the house, holding a small bag from which a delicious scent escaped. "I explained everything to Molly. She took it very well, and before I knew it, she started shoveling scones and muffins into a bag!" He laughed, and finally noticed Ron.

"Hello, sir." Ron extended a hand and Kingsley graciously took it.

"This is a pleasant surprise, Ronald. Harry here said that you were feeling a bit under the weather. I'm glad that he persuaded you to accompany us."

"Ron will do," Ron said. "Only Mum calls me _Ronald_ when I've done something wrong." He grinned sheepishly. "Besides, if Hermione needs us, then I'm there."

A knowing smile crept over Harry's face, but he said nothing. There would be plenty of time to take the mickey out of him, but for now they needed to attend to Hermione.

"How will we get to Australia?" Ron asked. He double checked his pockets, making sure his wand was safely tucked away. Harry did the same.

"I was thinking we could rely on Side-Along Apparition. It's far too much of a short notice to set up Portkeys. In fact, I had not even arranged for them. I remembered how Miss Granger was not particularly fond of them. We could floo to the Australian Ministry of Magic, but I'm afraid that would stir a bit of trouble."

"How so?" Ron inquired.

"Well, the two of you _are_ Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The minute someone spots you, jobs will be forgotten and questions will be asked. They'll want to know how you defeated Voldemort and whether or not all those lies printed in the Daily Prophet were true or not. It'd be quite a distraction, and we'd be delayed. We still need to find Hermione, mind you, and return her to her parents' home in peace. _Then_ we have some explaining to do. This reminds me... "

Kingsley fished something out of his robes. At first sight, it looked like a small bowl. Kingsley muttered _Engorgio_, however, and as it enlarged, Harry could tell it was a Pensieve.

"I need your memories," Kingsley began. "Nothing too drastic. If there is something you wish to keep to yourselves, then by all means, go ahead. However, I feel that proof in the form of a memory is something the Grangers will succumb to. I want you two to think about this, and remember a memory that will give an insight of the dire situation you three found yourselves in. If you find a memory that is particularly personal, don't bother using it. However, if you agree to come with me to Australia, I need a memory. Are you willing to do this?"

Harry and Ron contemplated on this. Finding a memory and showing it to Hermione's parents was a tedious task. First of all, there was the idea of _finding_ a suitable memory. Suitable meaning a subtle way to tell Hermione's parents that all three of them were pointed towards 'Mortal Peril' all year on Mrs. Weasley's clock. They narrowly escaped death so many times. How were they going to emphasize that all in one measly memory that they also had to be comfortable sharing with others?

Harry and Ron simultaneously nodded. "We'll do it."

* * *

Harry clutched his stomach for a few minutes after apparating into a small, dark alley. He hated the feeling of Side-Along Apparition, but it still was better than taking a series of Portkeys. Ron also looked a little queasy. He barely liked regular Apparition. Only Kingsley was nonplussed by their "trip", and he removed his robes. After making them smaller using _Reducto_, he placed them in his pocket.

Kingsley and Harry began to talk, but Ron unknowingly tuned them out. As he heaved a great sigh, he mentally roamed through his mind, and "entered" the door labeled 'Hermione'. In fact, she was all he could think about. When Harry uttered those three words- 'Hermione needs us- he felt a whirlwind of emotions. Happiness, of course, for being able to see her. She was his pain reliever, that magical potion locked away in a glorious body. Only _she_ could relieve him of his horrid dreams every night. But then he felt sadness. Hermione didn't need them for a quick hello. There were bloody owls for that. She needed them because she was in danger, or in pain, or a combination of the two. His sadness turned into anger, as he vowed to kick the arse of whoever was making her feel like dung. And then that anger became guilt, because he knew Hermione would not approve. And all this happened in a matter of seconds as he tried to put his trainers on while hopping around on one foot.

Ron had to admit that he was extremely worried. Hermione wasn't like him; she never did stupid things on an impulse. But when she was seething, things were likely to get out of hand. And the thought of her being all alone in some unfamiliar continent wasn't exactly pleasant to imagine, either. That's when he heard it.

"... Ordered her to remain in the Muggle world." Kingsley was divulging the details of Hermione's fight with Harry and Ron, who seemed to be daydreaming.

"_What?!_" Ron practically shouted.

Kingsley and Harry were both taken aback by Ron's sudden outburst. "Yes," Kingsley said slowly. "Hermione's father was in a fit of rage, and he ordered for her to remain with them."

Ron began to violently shake, and clenched his fists. "He wouldn't."

Kingsley maintained a calm demeanor. "Hermione is not one that is kicked around. She stood her ground, and she was brilliant, if I say so myself."

"Nothing to worry about mate," Harry murmured softly, lightly nudging Ron on the shoulder. It was times like these where Harry's brotherly instincts took over, and for the better, too.

Ron felt a little embarrassed about his outburst. The last thing he wanted the Minister to think was that he was some hothead who couldn't control his emotions, especially when they were about Hermione. Even if it _was_ true.

"Er, right." Ron's ears turned bright red. "How are we going to find Hermione?"

"When she left the house, she ran down the path leading to it and turned right. The Granger's neighborhood consists of houses for the first few minutes, but what throws me off the most is that she ran towards the central business district."

"What's in the business district?" Harry asked. Both his and Ron's faces were contorted with worry for their best friend.

"Not much for an eighteen year old witch, no matter how intelligent she is. There's a Supreme Court, though I can't imagine why she'd venture off there. There's also a church, a museum, and a hospital. I don't think she'd go anywhere near there."

"Well I highly doubt that she's at her parents' house," Ron spoke. "But she wouldn't go to any of those other places either. Is there any other places she would have gone to?"

"Well," The Minister began, slowly scratching his chin. "There is one particular place, but it's rather far from here. I hear it is known internationally for its beauty and tranquility."

"Where is it?" Harry asked.

"What's it called?" Ron asked at the same time.

"Hyde Park," Kingsley answered.

* * *

At this point, Ron was completely confused. He couldn't bring the thoughts to his mind, if that made any sense. The weather in Australia was hot, and Ron removed his jumper, slinging it over his shoulder. He looked up and saw that Harry had done the same. Only Kingsley was wearing all of his clothing, humming softly to himself. He wondered how Kingsley could be so calm and together while his insides were currently ripping each other apart. That's when he realized his friendly, open relationship with Hermione was completely different from Kingsley's businesslike one. His shoulders drooped a bit as he contemplated on how pissed off Hermione was to run all the way to bloody Hyde Park. Kingsley wasn't lying when he said it was far from here. Hell, they had almost walked a kilometer.

It was somewhat better than apparating, which Ron still didn't like. Kingsley didn't know the definite location of Hyde Park, so they had to walk. Ron didn't care, though. He'd walk to the end of Earth and back for Hermione.

Even when Kingsley muttered, "We're almost there", Ron found no solace. No comfort. It wasn't the long walk that was bothering him, or the summer heat. It was more or less the fact that Hermione was in pain, and that she didn't deserve it. If it was anyone who deserved pain, it was _him,_ for being such a daft git sometimes. Ron really began to think about how much he hurt her, his sweet 'Mione. There was first year, when he commented about how annoying she was. "No wonder she has no friends" were his exact words, and the anguish on Hermione's face as she ran away never made him as morose as they did right now.

There was third year, where he pushed her away all because of her bloody cat. And _his_ bloody rat. Fourth year was when he made her cry, something that still made him wince. He yelled at her, in front of everyone, for going to a ball with some bloke who _actually_ had the courage to ask her. Even if it was Victor Krum, he still had to give him credit for doing something correctly that Ron could only dream about. Sixth year was even worse, when he apparently lost his mind. Why else would he go out with Lavender Brown, who wasn't even half as attractive as Hermione? She didn't know a thing about him. Hell, she probably didn't even know his middle name! He only did it to make Hermione jealous, and he still felt ashamed because she liked him all along.

But nothing could amount to seventh year. Or, the lack of it.

He promised Hermione he wouldn't leave her. Even though his mind was set on her wanting Harry, he still believed her and that fire behind her eyes when she made him promise he would stay. He realized then and there that Harry's presence alone could not completely comfort him. There was always a piece of her seeking him out, as odd as it sounded. With every bit of bravado he could muster, he looked her in her doe-like eyes and promised he would never leave her.

And he did.

It was all the Horcrux's fault. Still, couldn't he try to find some confidence and control for Hermione's sake? The minute he stepped out of the camp, he regretted it. It didn't help that Hermione ran after him, falling a few times. Her face was covered with mud, and her hair was in a disarray of curls. And he still kept walking. He felt incredibly remorseful, but his pride told him to leave. So in order to keep his dignity, he had to hurt Hermione in the worst way possible. _Great exchange, huh? _Ron thought sarcastically to himself. _Bloody hell! I can actually think of a couple of mile's worth of times I've hurt Hermione. I am such a git!_

Ron practically bumped into Harry, who was staring in awe at the entrance to Hyde Park. Needless to say, it was no patch of grass with a cluster of trees. It was the complete opposite. The grounds of the park stretched out so far that Harry had to strain his eyes to see things in the farthest distance. There were statues placed around the park, and even a separate entrance for the Sandringham Gardens, among other attractions.

Kingsley broke the silence. "I think the best way to find Hermione is split up. We will cover a lot more ground that way, and find her faster. What do you boys think?"

Harry nodded his head in response. "We should all go in different directions. We still have a lot of work ahead of us."

Both Kingsley and Harry looked at Ron expectantly for an answer, who only nodded his head in response.

"All right then," Kingsley said in an official tone. "Harry, you will look for Hermione over by the Sandringham Gardens. Ron, you will walk down the avenue and find her there. And I'll head over to the Obelisk."

"How will we keep in contact?" Ron asked. "What if one of us finds her- how will we let each other know?"

"Good question, Ron." Kingsley furrowed his brow a bit. "Conjuring a Patronus would not be a good idea. It isn't conspicuous enough."

"Maybe we could do that red sparks thing."

Harry and Kingsley looked confused.

"You know..." Ron began. "If one of us finds her, we'll shoot red sparks out of our wands. I doubt Muggles would spot them anyway. Everyone's too busy looking at the trees."

"Good idea, mate." Harry gave his friend a smile. Even Kingsley nodded in approval.

Ron's ears turned pink.

"We should start searching right now," Kingsley said briskly. "Best of luck to you boys. Remember- red sparks." With that, Kingsley left the duo. With every step his pace became faster, as he headed towards the tall Obelisk.

Harry too, after giving a slight nod, turned away, leaving Ron and his anxiety alone.

* * *

After walking down the Avenue for about fifteen minutes, Ron became desperate. It didn't help that the small attraction was crawling with Muggles. Finding Hermione would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. A very lovely and breathtaking needle in a haystack. Ron sighed as he continued to walk and occasionally call out Hermione's name. He pictured her with her bushy, brown hair. She hated her hair, but Ron loved it. The smell of it was intoxicating, and catching a whiff of it sent shivers down Ron's spine. Her face adorned the most delicate features. Her brown, chocolate-colored eyes. Her soft, pink lips. Her small forehead, and long, narrow nose. Merlin, everything about her was perfect. She was like on of those Russian nested dolls: every time he saw his 'Mione, he noticed yet another exquisite feature.

He searched, but all he saw was green. A tree. A shrub. A flower, with pink petals but a _green_ stem. Tree. Tree. Bush. Grass. Orange. Tree. Leaves. _Wait._

"Orange?" Ron echoed a little idiotically. And then it hit him. Like a Knight Bus. Or a Hippogriff. That orange was not his eyes playing tricks on him. It was a T-shirt. A very familiar T-shirt. It wasn't just the T-shirt though. It was the angel wearing it. Her head was buried in her hands, and she was rocking herself slowly back and forth.

"Hermione!" Ron called, not caring about the strange looks passerby gave him. He ran to her a little clumsily, even tripping and landing in the grass on his face. Thank Merlin it was soft. He still continued to half-crawl and half-run, until he was by her side.

His breathing was ragged. "Hi."

The girl lifted her head up. "_Ron_?!" She said, incredulous. "Oh.. Ron..."

He never heard the rest of that sentence, though, because right then and there he crushed her into a hug, which she gladly accepted. He wrapped his arms around her waist, running his fingers through her hair. He could feel her sob into her chest, getting tears and Merlin-knows-what-else onto his shirt. He could care less, though, and only responded by planting light, feathery kisses onto her head, something he had never done before.

Hermione pulled away. "What are you doing here?" She whispered. Her hand immediately went to his cheek, and she shyly touched it, to confirm that he indeed was real. It wasn't a mirage like she feared. It was Ron, _her_ Ron, sitting next to her and acting like a personal handkerchief.

Ron wiped an astray tear away from her face. "I'm not a morning person. Sometimes I even sleep in until lunchtime. But if someone even _mentions_ that you may be in danger, or pain, or you're just plain hurting, you can bet I'll jump out of bed on a second's notice. Even if it means apparating to bloody Australia."

Hermione's heart fluttered a few times in her chest as she realized the immensity of Ron's words. Was this the love she was thriving to gain all throughout school?

Ron felt a little embarrassed towards Hermione's silence. "Now would be the time to thank me," He said, feigning chastisement.

Hermione giggled, and a grin broke out on Ron's face as he realized that he just made Hermione do something _very_ unlike her. He continued to look at her, _really_ look at her, and drink up the sight of the girl he hadn't seen for what seemed like an eternity.

"Don't look at me." Hermione fidgeted a bit, feeling uncomfortable.

"Why ever not, love?" Ron's words made her insides turn into the consistency of pumpkin juice.

"Because... I look ugly."

Ron felt appalled at her words. When was Hermione _ever_ ugly? "What the bloody hell are you talking about?" He demanded.

"Don't swear, Ronald!" Hermione scolded. "And I _do_ look ugly. My hair's a mess, and I'm all sweaty and gross-looking, and I'm wearing a ridiculous outfit-"

Ron put a finger one top of her lips, indicating her to shut up. She stopped in midsentence, dumbfounded at Ron's ability to quiet her without any complicated spells or eyebrows burning off. "If you think you're ugly, you're even more mental than I thought you were. And _that's_ saying something. You're hair is not a mess. It smells so, so _delicious_. I swear, if you bottled that scent you'd make a fortune. It's practically equivalent to Firewhisky, with its intoxication risk and all, without the burning in your throat, of course. And right now it's framing your face perfectly, which is heart-shaped by the way. Some strands of your curls are falling down your forehead, and it's driving me crazy. You're not sweaty at all; you're skin is just glistening. Exquisite girls like you are not fit to sweat. And I'll be damned if that outfit is ridiculous!" A playful smile was on his face. He pretended to be hurt. "I actually _like_ that shirt, but I must say you look much better in it than I do. To tell you the truth, 'Mione, you look, well... angelic."

If any part of Ron's speech didn't make Hermione completely fawn over him, that last one did just the trick. She gleefully jumped into his lap, hugging him as if he was the last thing on Earth that was real to her. For that split second, she completely forgot her dilemma. For all she knew, she was on vacation in a beautiful park with a boy who just called her _angelic_. Things seemed completely unbelievable. But not as unbelievable as what Ron did next.

He slowly lifted his chin off Hermione's shoulder, also causing her to look up from his chest. For a few seconds, he looked into her deep, brown eyes, before leaning in for the kill. Or kiss, respectively. His lips softly lingered over hers, before he completely took her by surprise by proceeding to kiss her with more passion than she herself could muster. It was just like the Battle kiss. Hell, it was better than the battle kiss. And everything felt so perfect as Hermione naturally wrapped her arms around his neck, and ran her fingers through his soft hair. She was still sitting in his lap, and as he leaned into her small frame, he couldn't believe how they fit perfectly into each other. It was like they were two puzzle pieces, and after much denying, their ends finally gave in and welcomed each other for a lifelong embrace.

Hermione and Ron kissed for a very, very, _very_ long time, only stopping for a few seconds to breathe in some much needed air. But right after their lungs felt sufficient enough, they were back at it again. For Ron, it was much better than snogging Lavender, who was constantly drowning him in wet, sloppy kisses. Her lips were too controlling, always the ones doing the teasing. With Hermione, it was different. She was patient and giving, allowing Ron to direct them when she knew he wanted to. But when he allowed her to lead the way, she felt a little nervous at first, only to quickly become enthusiastic. In other words, Hermione was an _excellent _snogger, where as Lavender was fit for licking the mouths of dogs. At the thought of this, Ron snorted with laughter.

"What?" Hermione asked, pulling away. "Did I do something wrong?" She bit her lip in worry.

"I strongly disagree with that notion," Ron responded, his voice husky. "I think you were bloody brilliant, and if you don't mind, I'd like to continue."

Hermione obliged, pulling into him once again. Ron smiled as he leaned into her lips. _She didn't even scold me for swearing! I wonder if that turns her on..._

Ron knew that he'd have to summon Kingsley and Harry eventually with his wand. They were probably very frantic now, having no luck in finding Hermione. But it just felt _so_ nice, having no interruptions for the meantime while kissing Hermione. It was something that felt right, and not a lot of things felt right in Ron's life right now. And he knew he'd have to pull away in a minute or two, and look into Hermione's eyes and ask her what was wrong. He knew she needed comfort and soothing, and not just in the form of kisses but actual, meaningful words. He was ready to give that to her. He was ready to give his memory to Kingsley, too. But there was something sitting in his lap, and he had been ready for her since second year. And for the time being, it was only fitting that he tended to her.


	9. In Just One Day

Hermione was sitting cross-legged in Ron's lap, with his legs drawn forward and bent at the knee. His arms were wrapped around her slim waist, his fingers making light circles on the small of her back. She no longer found herself shivering or gawking at his touch. Instead, she found them more or less becoming a part of her. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, though her hands were resting on his head, toying with his hair every few minutes. She was leaning into him, and following him through their kiss, turning at every indication he gave. The feeling of his lips on hers was that of euphoria; Hermione felt sunlight streaming into her body. She pictured all these unnatural things happening: her heart swelling, her insides dancing, her mind no longer having a say in her actions. Only her heart was speaking, and only of her love for Ron.

A twig snapped, and interrupted her heart-spoken thoughts, along with that endless kiss. Ron and Hermione looked up immediately, with her 'wand at the ready'. Even though the war was over, Harry, Ron and Hermione kept their wands by their sides at all times, even in sleep, to take on any stray Death Eaters seeking revenge. Ron let out a small chuckle at the sight of their intruder.

"I don't think you need to stupefy the squirrel, 'Mione." He gave her a lopsided grin.

"Oh hush, Ronald." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Make me," He retorted, sticking his tongue out at her. "Or... we could talk about why you're sitting all alone in a park, crying your eyes out." He folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back against the tree, waiting.

"Or," Hermione quickly countered, "We could talk about you. How are you and your family? I have every right to know. You can't deny me of that, you know. Besides, I've missed you guys like mad." She looked up at him with those enchanting, doe-like eyes; two manipulating things that Ron could never resist no matter how hard he tried.

He sighed. "I'm okay, I guess. I mean, things aren't exactly dandy at my house. The tension there is just... _maddening_. It's so hard to control myself and my anger. Some days I just feel like breaking all my furniture and ripping up all my books, and burning all my jumpers. Other times I just want to... you know... cry." His ears turned pink at this last confession. He felt insecure about crying, because he knew he was one of the few people who rarely shed tears. Frankly, he was depended on for that. "But I feel like I have to be strong, you know? Like, it's the least I can do to not cry and pretend like I'm okay. It just makes me one less person to worry about."

"You can't deny yourself like that, Ron!" Hermione said indignantly.

"But I _need_ to, 'Mione!" Ron exclaimed, his voice rough. "For everyone! Mum is a mess right now! Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and I try to settle myself by walking around the house. I can hear her crying from her bedroom, and it just makes me feel so angry and so disappointed in myself! I start thinking about how I got poisoned in sixth year, and how I drove the flying car to Hogwarts with Harry when were twelve. It just makes me think about how Mum felt. I never understood how much she had to worry. It was always, "Bugger off, Mum. I'll be fine." I never realized how hard these types of things must be for her. And now I'm learning it the hard way."

It was overwhelming, hearing Ron talk like this. He never spoke about his emotions that much, nor did he come off as being able to comprehend them. Now, hear he was, leaning against a tree, talking freely about how he was feeling as if giving a report on the weather. But then, Hermione realized what exactly he was doing. He was finding comfort in her. Things were different between them now, meaning they could talk about these things without any hesitation. It was an act of trust, and love, and Hermione finally understood the immensity of Dumbledore's words when he emphasized the importance of love. It really was the greatest magic of all.

"But now," Ron began, interrupting the silence, "We need to talk about _you_, and how you feel. Mind you, I'm not Ginny, and I still probably have the emotional range of a teaspoon-"

Hermione cut him off by pulling his face towards hers for a chaste kiss. "You coming here to see me has helped enough," She said in a quiet voice. "Harry and Ginny are good at calming me down, but I find myself always seeking you out secretly. In fact, you're so important to me that it almost hurts. In a good way, though, if that even makes sense. But then again, things don't make much sense with you." Hermione blushed after finishing, but Ron's reaction surprised her.

Though he grinned at her last comment, his blue eyes burned with intensity, and he looked as if he was lost in a deep thought. "I never knew I meant that much to you."

"Oh come on, Ron. You can't be _that_ daft." She playfully smiled at him.

He smiled back at her, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked. "I didn't mean to call you dumb or anything-"

"Nothing's wrong," Ron murmured, picking up her hand and playing with her fingers. "I'm just kicking myself for not asking you out 5 years ago." He gave her an apologetic smile. "I always dreamed about this. I didn't know I could find it well and awake and alive right in front of me."

Hermione lifted his chin so that they were seeing each other eye to eye. Her caramel brown eyes reflected in his oceanic blue ones. "It was always here, Ron. It always will be."

"For how long?"

Hermione paused, before responding, "Forever and a day."

* * *

The unsettling passion between Ron and Hermione became stronger as the minutes passed, until Ron happened to glance down at Hermione's wristwatch. After screaming _Bloody hell!_ a few times, and receiving several scoldings from Hermione, he cast the spell that omitted red sparks from his wand in a hidden thicket of trees. The two of them continued to stand there, hand in hand, waiting. Hermione removed her Chudley Cannons T-shirt lovingly, folding it with care and placing it in her beaded bag, while Ron busied himself by kicking a pebble. In a few minutes, they could see Harry frantically walking towards them.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, running up to Harry to give him a hug. "Thank you for coming. It means so much to me."

Harry pulled away, smiling broadly at her. "Don't mention it, Hermione. After all, what are non-related siblings for?"

She smiled at him, feeling considerably lighter. The appearance of her two best mates made such a difference towards her mood, and she chided herself for thinking such dismal thoughts earlier. Harry and Ron would always be there. It was like a magical contract; all three of them were bound together for life. She wouldn't have it any other way.

"Ah, Hermione," Kingsley said, making his presence known. While Harry had practically run towards the duo, Kingsley chose to walk at a slower pace. He didn't want to impose on the trio, who were clearly catching up and asking of each other's well being. It was an intimate moment for the Golden Trio, and Kingsley could clearly see barriers he was not to cross; this moment was too precious to interrupt.

Hermione blushed deeply and sighed, looking down at her shoes. She felt like such a _child_, and as if she could hear the reprimanding coming.

"It was most unfortunate for you to, shall we say; leave your parent's home like that."

Hermione nodded, waiting for the unavoidable scolding.

"It was most helpful that you chose to run to the business district, though. It made our search entirely easier, especially for Ron. After all, he is the one that found you first." His eyes twinkled.

Hermione gaped at him, completely shocked. In the course of a few minutes, she prepared a short apology in her head out of fear. Clearly, Kingsley did not pursue her for one. In fact, he seemed rather indifferent, as if setting off on a wild goose chase to find a teenage witch hardly bothered him.

"I'm terribly sorry-" Hermione began to say, opting to repeat her apology to the Minister regardless.

Kingsley, however, interrupted her, holding up his hand. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. I must say that the situation in your Australian home became rather out of hand very quickly. I don't think I've ever been called a 'Minister bloke' before. Of course, It doesn't help that I haven't been in this position for too long."

Harry and Ron looked amused, wondering what was said in Hermione's home, and Kingsley himself chucked jovially. "I'm only trying to lighten up the situation, dear. I hope you aren't too upset."

Hermione glanced at Ron, whose ears turned pink at her gaze. "Not anymore," she said calmly.

If Kingsley noticed the looks between Ron and Hermione, he did not press that matter any further. Instead, he began to explain to Hermione about his plan. He discreetly withdrew the Pensieve from his trouser pocket, and asked for Hermione's consent. She heartily agreed, and proceeded to stand beside Harry and Ron. She naturally linked arms with Harry, who continued to ask her if she was alright, Ron, who smiled shyly at her, and Kingsley, who apparated them all to Hermione's home.

* * *

Ron looked at Hermione's home with awe. Aside from Uncle Vernon's living room, he had never seen a Muggle home before, especially from the outside. It was nothing like the Burrow, which sat on a field that seemed to stretch forever. There was no chicken coop situated on the side of the house. Instead, a garden of intricate looking flowers seemed to weave around the house. There was a walkway that led to the front door, which looked as if it were made out of slabs of concrete. The house itself was shaped differently, not resembling the cylinder-shaped Burrow at all. The house was a deep shade of blue, which made him unconsciously touch his eyelids with his face. He wondered if Hermione noticed that small similarity. It looked fairly large, but Ron could never get used to the idea of houses sitting so close to each other. It just seemed mad. Then again, most Muggle things didn't appeal much to Ron, who usually questioned the point and the function of them. Either that or he couldn't figure out how to use them. Still, this house seemed welcoming, because for once, he was going to step into the life of another family without the grievances and troubles of his own.

Ron was interrupted out of his thoughts by the sight of Hermione's mother, who resembled her greatly. She had the same bushy hair, though it was lighter in color and tamed a bit. She wore comfortable clothing, and was beautiful in a way that Ron could not place. She instantly reminded him of his own mother, though, when she grabbed Hermione in a crushing hug.

"We were so worried about you, 'Mione!" Her mother's body seemed to crumple as she sagged an inch or two to hug the life out of her daughter. She lifted her head though, and caught sight of Kingsley, Harry, and Ron. She straightened up her body immediately, acknowledging Kingsley. "Minister, thank you for bringing her back."

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Granger." Kingsley gave her a comforting smile, and with her encouragement, he stepped through the front door, followed closely by Harry and Ron.

"Please, sir," She said, smoothing her hair with her hand, "call me Jean."

"Will do, Jean. Only if you promise to call me Kingsley." He smiled at her, before sitting down on a sofa. He noticed that Mr. Granger was nowhere to be seen.

"Mum, these are my friends-" Hermione began to say, but her mother interrupted her.

"Well, they're Harry and Ron, of course," She responded matter-of-factly. It was something that she tended to do. She chortled as Harry and Ron stared at her with looks of confusion. "Hermione has explained you two in great deal in her letters home, you know. Harry is the one with the black, messy hair that will never lie flat. He wears glasses, and has a scar on his forehead. His eyes are green. Ron is the one with the flaming red hair and the deepest blue eyes you will ever see." Hermione was blushing at this point and trying to shush her mother, who was amused at her daughter's antics. "He's about a foot taller than everyone, regardless of age."

Ron laughed, "Leave it to 'Mione to write an essay about us to her parents, eh Harry?" Even Harry could not suppress his chuckles, and soon, the four of them, including Hermione, were laughing.

"Ahem."

A voice came from the corner of the room, which made everyone's head's turn. Jack's father sheepishly stepped into the center of the room, looking meek and regretful. "Hermione, dear," He said, his arms outstretched.

These two words were enough for Hermione to slowly walk into his embrace. Frankly, his expression told her everything, and any anger she had felt a few hours earlier seemed unimportant now after seeing her father look so feeble. He gave her a tight squeeze, something Hermione hadn't received in the longest time.

"I owe you an apology," He said, looking at her intently, as if for the first time.

Hermione equally held his gaze. "I owe you an explanation."

He smiled sheepishly again, before responding. "I promise I'll actually listen this time. You deserve that much and so much more for all you've been through."

Hermione warmly smiled back, but still continued to look at her father quizzically. How had his perspective changed so much in less than a day? Hermione could only associate the reason with her mother, who was one of the few people able to sway her father's opinions. She made a mental note to thank her Mum later.

Kingsley cleared his throat. He gesticulated for everyone to settle in the living room, an open space with a few sofas, a coffee table, two end tables, and an assortment of lamps and other pieces of furniture. Mr. and Mrs. Granger sat themselves on a small sofa, which was big enough for two people. Hermione awkwardly sat down on the middle of a much bigger sofa, with Harry and Ron protectively sitting on either side of her. Kingsley, be default, sat himself on the loveseat. He neatly placed his two hands in his lap, leaning back a bit and adjusting to his seat. The entire room gazed at him expectantly.

"I'd like to start off first by explaining the objective of a Pensieve." He removed the Pensieve once again from his pocket, and set it on the coffee table. It was black, and resembled a small cauldron, with ancient carvings in a foreign language around the edge. Muttering _Engorgio_, he waited for Jean and Jack's awed expressions to subside before continuing. "A Pensieve is an object that is often used by wizards who feel their mind is too cluttered. It is of great use when one wants to examine something, like a memory, more closely. Which is exactly what this does; it allows you to view your memories."

"Amazing," Jack said softly. Not too long ago, he was furious with Hermione. However, his love of all things magical did not seem to be affected. In fact, out of the two parents, he held a greater interest in magic, along with its objects and laws.

"A memory is viewed by placing it in the Pensieve. The memory itself is extracted out of one's mind, using a wand." After conjuring a vial, he demonstrated this by pointing the tip of his wand to the corner of his forehead with a look of concentration. Harry felt a sense of familiarity envelope him, as he had seen Dumbledore do this several times. After placing the memory in a vial, Kingsley continued to speak. "When one is viewing a memory, he or she cannot affect anyone or anything in it. In other words, you can scream, shout, poke, or even curse, and it wouldn't make a difference. You will not be noticed, nor will you be able to touch anything. Now, we _could_ sit around here and explain a year's course of events. And this passed year has been very rough, I can tell you that. Or, we could view a few memories, which would settle the matter quicker." After he finished speaking, he encouragingly smiled at the Grangers, who considered his idea.

"What do you think, Jack?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"He has a point, Jean. The Pensieve seems like the best option."

"The Pensieve it is, then," Kingsley said. "Who would like to go first?" He looked at Ron, Harry, and Hermione; all three of them had mingled expressions of fear and excitement. "Ah. I believe I am." He smiled at them understandingly, and placed his memory in the large, ornate object. The memory immediately began to swirl as neither liquid nor gas, much to Jack's astonishment. Once again, Hermione found herself linking arms with everyone in the room. She had never been in a Pensieve before, and though she had read about them many times, she still felt anxious. She was not the only one, though. Jean and Jack both looked skeptically at the object, despite their agreeing to use it. Kingsley, however, did not acknowledge their doubts as he linked arms with all of them and plunged his face into the Pensieve. Within seconds, the six of them were falling in what seemed to be a bottomless pit, until ground could clearly be seen. Kingsley and Harry both landed swiftly, having some experience, but the rest found trouble landed on their feet. Instead, they got a bit tangled on the ground. Their pains, however, did not bother any of them as they gazed in interest at the scene unfolding in front of them.

The six of them, along with those present in the memory, found themselves in a dark, dingy room. A young wizard came into view, and he was speaking into a microphone. Beside him sat an apprehensive-looking Kingsley, and a tired Remus Lupin. And so, _Potterwatch_ began.

* * *

_"We apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters. We've now found ourselves another secure location," Lee was saying, "and I'm pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!"_

_"Hi."_

_"Evening, River."_

_"But before we hear from Royal and Romulus," Lee went on, "let's take a moment to report those deaths that the _Wizarding Wireless Network News _and_ Daily Prophet _don't think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell. A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news._

_"Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse- more evidence, as if needed, of the fact that the Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime._

_"Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric's Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic._

_"Listeners, I'd like to invite you now to join us in a minute's silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by Death Eaters."_

_A moment of silence fell among Lee Jordan, Remus, and Kingsley, who all looked deeply troubled._

_"Thank you," said Lee's voice. "And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle World."_

_"Thanks, River," said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring. "Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties."However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles' knowledge. I'd like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken."_

_"And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be 'Wizards first'?" asked Lee._

_"I'd say that it's one short step from 'Wizards first' to 'Purebloods first' and then to 'Death Eaters'," replied Kingsley. "We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving."_

_"Excellently put, Royal, and you've got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess," said Lee. "And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature, 'Pals of Potter'."_

_"Thanks River," said another very familiar voice._

_"Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you've appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?"_

_"I do," said Lupin firmly. "There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. 'The Boy Who Lived' remains a symbol of everything, for which we are fighting the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting."_

_"And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?"_

_"I'd tell him we're all with him in spirit," said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. "And I'd tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right."_

_"And our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter's who are suffering for their allegiance?" Lee was saying._

_"Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of _The Quibbler_," said Lupin._

_"We have also head within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid, well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a 'Support Harry Potter' party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run."_

_"I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you've got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?" asked Lee._

_"It would tend to give you an edge," agreed Lupin gravely. "May I just add that while we here at _Potterwatch _tonight applaud Hagrid's spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of Harry's supporters against following Hagrid's lead. 'Support Harry Potter' parties are unwise in the present climate."_

_"Indeed they are, Romulus," said Lee, so we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to the man with the lightening scar by listening to _Potterwatch_!_ _And now let's move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I'd like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent._

_""Rodent'?" said yet another familiar voice._

_"I'm not being 'Rodent', no way, I told you I wanted to be 'Rapier'!"_

_"Oh, all right then. 'Rapier,' could you please give us your take on the various stories we've been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?"_

_"Yes, River, I can," said Fred. "As our listeners will know, unless they've taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who's strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You- Know-Who's running around the place."_

_"Which suits him, of course," said Kingsley. "The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself."_

_"Agreed," said Fred. "So, people, let's try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That's a _basilisk_, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that's glaring at you has got legs. IF it has, it's safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do."_

_"And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?" asked Lee._

_"Well, who wouldn't want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he's been putting in?" asked Fred. "Point is, people, don't get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he's out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don't count on him being a long way away if you're planning on taking any risks. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!"_

_"Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier," said Lee. "Listeners, that brings us to to the end of another _Potterwatch_. We don't know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be 'Mad-Eye.' Keep each other safe: Keep Faith. Good night."_

* * *

The memory ended, and everyone felt an invisible cord pulling them back into the living room. Everyone had a different reaction to the memory they had just seen.

The Grangers looked very disturbed. At that moment, Jack felt so much gratitude towards his daughter for placing a memory charm on him, even if it did mean ending up in Australia. It was such an act of love and protection, and it kept them safe. The two parents finally understood how their daughter must have felt practically obligated to do it, as she clearly had foreseen the possibility of future murders.

For Harry, it was as if bad memories were flooding back. He remembered listening to this very broadcast, with Ron fiddling with the radio. Shortly afterwards, they had been captured by the Snatchers, and Dobby had died after rescuing him. The worst part was hearing Lupin's voice, reassuring him in an indirect way. Remembering how he had scathed at the werewolf for abandoning Tonks, but still feeling grateful that he was forgiven. _Ginny_, he thought. _Focus on Ginny_. Focusing on Ginny was the only thing that seemed to keep him out of his moods. And while Ron may have been Hermione's 'white knight', Ginny was definitely his 'white princess'.

Ron seemed frozen in shock to hear Fred's voice. It seemed impossible that he had openly talked to Hermione about everything not too long ago. Hearing Fred's voice though, did not comfort him in the least bit. It was only another reminder that he would never hear a good joke again, unless George came around. And _that_ was unlikely. He tried to smile at the fact that Fred still had a positive attitude, even when Voldemort was at large, but every muscle in his body was aching, and he could not do it.

Hermione felt angry about the predicament her parents' could've found themselves in. Most of all, though, she felt a longing for all those who had died. It wasn't fair that Ted Tonks could never hold his grandson, or that an innocent Muggle family had to play the roles of victims in something they were completely unaware of. And she couldn't help but feel a bit of apprehension about Ron, who looked very pale and stiff. She had gone through this for almost a year, and yet to see a piece of it again in mere minutes was almost even more unbearable.

Kingsley was the only one who appeared to be calm, on the outside at least. He felt the same whirlwind of emotions, but he couldn't grieve _here_. Grieving to him was intimate, and he tried hard to keep a nonplussed demeanor. However, he was concerned. Though the Pensieve proved to be useful, it still was yielding other results. It had affected everyone, more than they probably could have guessed. The effects of a mere memory were very strong, and as Kingsley glanced around the room from face to face, he realized it was going to be a very long night.


	10. Together We Fall Apart

Kingsley Shacklebolt was no ordinary Auror, no ordinary Minister of Magic, and certainly no ordinary man. Brought up in a world filled with angst and despair and glimmers of hope, he had perfected the art of controlling himself, even in the darkest of times and situations. It was a quality that made him likeable in the eyes of others, and it made him the Auror to rely on when everything was going wrong. In fact, he had been even been offered a job once or twice for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, with his knowledge about Muggle life and the ways to behave in front of them.

Conquering Voldemort and his followers was something that would be written in historical books for the next century or two. The act itself was one of the greatest victories ever in the Wizarding World. The mess to clean up directly afterwards, though, was another task entirely. There were owls to be sent and families to be contacted, and funerals to be arranged. And in Hermione's case, there were memory charms to be removed and things to be explained. As Kingsley tiredly rubbed his temple, he realized the enormity of the daunting task ahead of him.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were not stupid, and Kingsley knew this after examining their case file closely. They were two, smart dentists, making comfortable incomes and living lavishly in their home. The intelligence came in by the methods of the way they raised their only child, Hermione. Their smarts weren't coming across strongly, though, as they continued to glance at the Pensieve with unease. Kingsley knew for a fact that he could be the most rational person in all of Australia, but he'd need the Grangers cooperation for things to go smoothly. So he sat back down in his seat grimly, and began to explain the events that had just taken place.

* * *

"What you just saw," he began, "was my memory from last year. _The Daily Prophet_ was a heavily relied newspaper in Britain, but also corrupt with false headlines and news stories. We, meaning the Order of the Phoenix, needed a way to address the Wizarding World stealthily but successfully, and we did this in means of a news broadcast. Thus, we were able to report correct news, and those who were wise enough to listen learned the truth about Voldemort, and deaths among Muggles." He waited politely for the Grangers to digest this small amount of information.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Jean spoke up, in a faint, timid voice. She looked a little scared, with one hand clasped firmly in her husband's, and the other resting in her lap. Her face showed mixed expressions of fear, anxiety, relief, and even a hint of determination. "I had _The Quibbler_ subscribed here." Ignoring the strange looks she received from the few people in the room, including those of her daughter's, she continued. "Well, not _here_, I mean. But back when Hermione came home for the summer after her fourth year." She directed her attention away from Kingsley and towards Hermione. "Remember, dear? You told me about that horrible woman who wrote false things... I can't remember her name."

"Rita Skeeter," Hermione promptly said, with Harry and Ron mumbling in chorus.

"Yes, her. I occasionally got a _Daily Prophet_, but I stopped after what you told me. And then you wrote home once, mentioning that odd friend of yours and her father's newspaper."

"Luna Lovegood and _The Quibbler_."

"Precisely," Jean answered. "I'm sorry, dears, but my memory is still a bit hazy."

"That's quite normal," Kingsley said, reassuring her. "I'm quite surprised, actually, that the two of you are recalling things so quickly. Normally, the after effects leave one confused."

"We had a bit of time to regain our thoughts, when Hermione... er, left." This time Jack spoke.

Jean continued to talk. "Now, there were plenty of odd things in that newspaper. I had never heard of a lot of the creatures mentioned in that newspaper, and though I'm not a witch, I thoroughly read all your textbooks. Especially the 'Care of Magical Creatures' one and it _never_ mentioned Nargles." She dismissed the small issue with a wave of her hand, though a faint smile played on Harry's lips as he thought fondly of his friend. He thought to nudge Ron, but the vacant expression on his face told Harry otherwise. "No matter. The point is, I had a good idea of what was going on, but nothing was too serious then. No deaths or strange disappearances. I couldn't understand how this wizard fellow returned, either."

At this point, Harry tensed. Even though Voldemort was gone, he still felt bitter towards those who printed the lies about him, and those who blindly believed it. Sometimes, it took all his willpower to not scream _I told you so!_ at the Ministry of Magic. For a second, he caught sight of his hand, and could still make out _I must not tell lies._ And yet, the 'lies' proved to be true.

Jean sensed Harry's anger. "Then again," she countered quickly, "like I said, I'm not a witch. I wouldn't even know how this person would return, or how he would proceed to attack. But after seeing _that_..."-She motioned towards the Pensieve with a trembling finger- "I'd certainly think it would be foolish to not believe the Order of the Phoenix."

Kingsley nodded. "If only we had more people with common sense like you..." He shook his head, pressing his thumbs to his forehead once more, before continuing. "Anyway, this method of broadcasting was the only way we could alert the public about the true dangers. I don't mean to frighten either of you, but if it hadn't been for your daughter's resourcefulness, you could have possibly been an innocent family killed. The founder of the Order, Albus Dumbledore, once told us that times were getting hard, and eventually we'd have to choose between what is right and what is easy. Hermione did precisely that, and it very well saved your lives."

Hermione blushed again, trying to avoid the looks of awe from the Minister and her parents, and instead chose to focus on a very interesting line on the palm of her hand. Kingsley made her sound so _good _and brave about the memory charm, where as she could only thing of all the things that could have gone wrong. The only thing that made her feel a bit lighter were the looks of gratitude on her parent's faces.

She had almost expected Ron to crack a joke about how she had saved his and Harry's lives by not making them repeat first year a couple of times with all her homework help. Ron said nothing, though, and his eyes looked glassy. Clearly, he wasn't paying attention to anyone in the room. It looked as if he were replaying the events of the Pensieve over and over again in his mind, particularly the part where Fred was speaking.

"I guess you didn't get all those top marks for nothing," Jack said, in an almost teasing manner. Hermione immediately understood that he had forgiven her. Jean nodded in agreement with her husband, looking at Hermione affectionately.

Kingsley breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that they were finally getting somewhere. "Shall we proceed with the next memory?"

Jack shuddered a bit. "I think that last one very well made us understand," he mumbled.

Hermione stood up. "Just one more Dad, please. This one will prove your point." Without waiting for approval, she marched over to Kingsley, closed her eyes, and began to concentrate. Kingsley understood, and drew his wand to her temple. They had already seen it once, but it still startled the Grangers as a long, silver strand slid out of her head and was placed in the Pensieve.

She stood precariously near the coffee table, her face mere inches away from the wisps of memories. On her right, Harry grabbed her hand, followed by Ron. On her left, she felt her mother's warm hand grasp hers rightly, followed by her father and Kingsley. Without a second though, she plunged headfirst into the bowl, dragging the others behind with her. They continued to fall, for what seemed like the longest time, until a large courtroom appeared, similar to that of the Wizengamot.

* * *

_"Next- Mary Cattermole," called Umbridge._

_A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long, plain robes. Her face was completely bloodless._

_It was not the same room in which Harry had once been interrogated for improper use of magic. This one was much smaller, though the ceiling was quite as high; it gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well._

_There were more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Mafalda-Hermione, quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other. At the foot of the platform, a bright-silver long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors: That was for the accused to feel, not the accusers._

_"Sit down," said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice._

_Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the arms of the chair and bound her there._

_"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" asked Umbridge._

_Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod._

_"Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?"_

_Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears._

_"I don't know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!"_

_Umbridge ignored her._

_"Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?"_

_Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever._

_"They're frightened; they think I might not come home-"_

_"Spare us," spat Yaxley. "The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies."_

_"A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole," Umbridge was saying. "Eight-and-three quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?"_

_Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes with her sleeve._

_"Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?"_

_"T-took?" sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. "I didn't t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It-it-it- _chose_ me."_

_She cried harder than ever._

_Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh. She leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void: the locket._

_Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else._

_"No," said Umbridge, "no, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here- Mafalda, pass them to me."_

_Umbridge held out a small hand; She looked so toadlike at that moment. Mafalda-Hermione's hands were shaking with shock. She fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole's name on it._

_"That's- that's pretty, Dolores," she said, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge's blouse._

_"What?" snapped Umbridge, glancing down. "Oh yes- an old family heirloom," she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. "The _S_ stands for Selwyn... I am related to the Selwyns... Indeed, there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related. ... A pity," she continued in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole's questionnaire, "that the same cannot be said for you. _'Parents' professions: greengrocers.'_"_

_Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and down, and the dementors stood waiting in the corners._

_

* * *

_

Hermione deliberately ended her memory there, not wanting to confuse or frighten her parent's any further. By the looks of their faces, she could tell they weren't clear on her intent of showing it when she was nowhere to be seen in the first place. The only ones who understood were Harry and Ron, who were there when it happened. Even Kingsley gave her a curious look, as if silently asking her how she witnessed all this.

With her wand, she prodded the tip of her memory, until a few visible shapes emerged. She bit her lip in frustration when Yaxley came into view, and she furiously poked at him until he disintegrated. When Mafalda Hopkirk finally appeared, Hermione cleared her throat to receive everyone's undivided attention.

"This," Hermione began in a businesslike voice, "is me."

Mr. and Mrs. Granger exchanged confused looks as they recalled the squeaky-voiced witch. Only Kingsley caught on.

"We used something called the 'Polyjuice Potion'. It takes about a month to brew, and you need to add the hairs of the person you want to transform into. When you drink it, you become that person for a certain amount of time. Ron, Harry, and I needed to sneak into the Ministry to get something, and the only way we could do it was by transforming into three random Ministry workers."

"Why did you have to sneak in?" Mr. Granger asked, still looking awed.

"We all had to go into hiding that year," Harry said. "We couldn't return to school, and we were wanted for different reasons. Voldemort was looking for me, and Ron's family was in danger too. He had to pretend he had some rare disease."

"And as for me," said Hermione said glumly, "I hadn't shown up for my Ministry questioning. That woman you just saw, Mrs., Cattermole, was just like me. Practically no one in her immediate family was a witch or a wizard. After Voldemort took over the Ministry, the Improper Use of Magic Office questioned Muggle-borns about how they had accumulated wands, and accused them for stealing magic. It was all part of the regime." She poked at the Pensieve once more, until Umbridge appeared. "This vile woman, Dolores Umbridge, took great pleasure in conducting these trials."

"What happened to that poor woman?" asked Mrs. Granger, who looked as if on the verge of tears.

"Mrs. Cattermole?" Hermione asked. "Harry and I helped her get out of the Ministry with her husband. I suppose she left the country with her family like we told her too. Truthfully, these last few weeks have been so hectic. We haven't heard from a lot of people."

"Oh Hermione!" Mrs. Granger exclaimed hysterically, rushing forward to hug the life out of her daughter. "And to think... this could have happened to you. This could have happened to_ us_, Jack." She turned to face her husband. "We could have been like that poor family dead, or the Cattermole's..." A sensation took over her body as she slipped out of focus and crumpled to the floor, the blurry images in front of her fading away.

* * *

Hermione shrieked at the sight of her mother on the floor; Jack immediately dropped besides her, shaking her gently, though his voice became more and more hoarse. Harry and Ron stood there, horrified, glancing at Kingsley and unsure of what to do. Only he remained calm during the commotion, conjuring a glass of water as he knelt beside Mrs. Granger. Her steady breathing indicated that she was still alive, just unconscious.

"We should get her off the ground," Kingsley said softly, startling Hermione and her father, who were not aware of him kneeling next to them. He was about to flick his wand, but put it away when Mr. Granger gingerly lifted his wife. His hands cradled the crook underneath her knees and her neck, and he carried her towards the biggest sofa. After setting her down, he once again kneeled beside her, rubbing a lock of her hair between his fingers.

"What do we do now?" He croaked, looking a little faint himself. "Can't you revive her? I think I read it somewhere in one of Hermione's schoolbooks..." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, looking at his still wife once more.

"_Rennervate_," Kingsley answered calmly, while simultaneously trying to hide his surprise at the abundant knowledge of the Grangers, who seemed to know a lot about the Wizarding World. "I'm afraid it won't work with Jean. You see, she hasn't been stunned. She _is_ unconscious, but not seriously, and definitely not by means of a Wizard's doing. I think the shock of this situation has just finally gotten to her. I suggest we leave her be, and wait for her to walk up. In the meantime..." He gestured towards the Pensieve, as if asking if Jack desired to continue.

"No more," Jack said tiredly, still looking at his wife out of the corner of his eye. "I've seen enough. And I don't regret Hermione doing this at all. I'm very sorry, er, you know, for my behavior earlier."

Kingsley held up a large hand. "Don't worry, Mr. Granger. It's nothing compared to the potted plant I got thrown at my head after being called a nutter two weeks ago."

Harry snorted, and even Ron managed a feeble smile.

Jack merely smiled, but used the diversion to survey everyone around the room. His eyes immediately settled on Ron, the tall, lanky redhead Hermione would always mention. He seemed unusually quiet, and Jack was sure it had nothing to do with the fact that he was meeting Hermione's family for the first time. There was apprehension in the room, and he could sense it as Hermione's eyes flickered back to Ron every now and then. Jack had, to bluntly put it, screwed up for the better part of the day, and decided to make things right the only way he knew how.

"Kingsley?" He asked tentatively. "Could you come upstairs with me for a moment? There's actually a broken window in the guest room upstairs. Jean and I have been meaning to get it fixed, but I was wondering if you could help me get it out of the way." Desperately trying to think of a way to busy the Minister, he added as an afterthought, "Oh, and would you like something to drink?"

Kingsley nodded, standing up. "Certainly. We can tackle that window in no time. As for the drink, I can take care of that. Can it wait, though, until your wife wakes up?" He glanced towards Jean, who was lying on the sofa serenely.

"Not a problem. Hermione, Harry, and Ron can watch her," Jack responded.

"Alright, then. Hermione, make sure your mother drinks that glass of water when she wakes up." With that, he followed Jack up the stairs, completely understanding what he was intending to do.


	11. The Way He Sees It

Hermione watched her father and the Minister leave the room. Her eyes trailed up the ornate banister, something her parent's also had in their home in Britain. She felt jolts of déjà vu as she glanced around the living room, finding things so uncannily similar to her old home. The way her parents had arranged the sofas, in a kind of semi-circle. The intricate objects settling casually about the room, tying the entire scene altogether.

At this very moment, things were complicated. A bubble of elation was inside of her; her parents had forgiven her. A wave of unease settled over her, though, as she finally took a good, long look at Ron. To say that he looked glum was an understatement. There was something raw about his eyes, and the only movement was his pale, nimble fingers pushing his hair out of his face. Hermione was hesitant to approach him, as she never completely saw him behaving like this.

The tension in the room was smothering, and she needed to escape. She'd go to Ron when he looked at least a tiny bit welcoming; right now he looked like he wanted to be alone.

"I'll go make tea," She said automatically, brushing her knees with her fingers as she stood up. Harry nodded at her once, and then went to the sofa Kingsley was previously sitting in. Ron didn't give any sign of listening, and she gave up on trying to receive a response.

Hermione made her away around the living room, expertly maneuvering between couches and tables as she walked into what was the kitchen. She poked around, and once again, found many similarities between the kitchen back in Britain and the one here. The long, sleek counters were polished, without a trace of splatter or crumbs. A lonely looking mug was on one end of a counter, and Hermione found ceramic containers lined with parchment holding tea leaves and herbs. The stove had four burners, with a small pan that still had some porridge left over in it from breakfast. Hermione almost felt like she was snooping, feeling like a trespasser in this foreign kitchen.

It was right then and there that she realized the ache inside of her, the longing for returning home.

* * *

"Mate," Harry said softly, prodding Ron with a hand. "Are you okay? You've barely said a word all afternoon." He hesitantly sat down next to Ron, after retrieving the bag of baked goods Mrs. Weasley had left with Kingsley earlier. He was famished, and planned on going into the kitchen to give them to Hermione to serve with tea, but he wanted to talk to Ron first. He knew how Ron felt, considering he himself lost his parents, a godfather, a classmate, a fatherly figure... the list was endless. All Ron needed to do was open up, and Harry would be there, ready to offer comfort.

When Ron said nothing, Harry tried again. "I know how you feel, Ron."

Ron looked up, his blue eyes blazing. "Do you, Harry? _Do_ you?" His teeth were clenched, and he looked angry.

Harry felt an irritation rising up in him. Of course he did! He was only seventeen, and had lost practically every lifeline he had. Ron still had a good seven family members to go back to, didn't he? Harry knew he needed to be patient though; his friend wasn't used to this type of loss. "Of course I do, Ron. In case you forgot, my parents aren't... they aren't _here_."

The anger almost dissolved in Ron. He felt like a git at this point, questioning Harry about something that was so _obvious_. "But," His voice faltered, "You didn't really _know_ them, did you? I mean, Fred was... I knew him for seventeen bloody years!"

Harry considered this for a moment. "You're right," He admitted. "I was so young when they died, and I grew up being nurtured by Aunt Petunia before I knew it." He made a face. "I cried a lot when I was younger, though. In my cupboard under the stairs." He laughed bitterly. "When I finally did find out what happened to them, and how they died, there wasn't really any pain left. I barely even understood it. There was remorse, though, and sadness, but by the time I could properly grieve, there was... nothing left to feel, I suppose."

Ron said nothing, and instead focused on his fingernails.

"I _did_ know someone though. He was essentially like a father to me. I spent a good part of my life not knowing a thing about him, and when I finally learned of his existence, everyone told me he was a crazed murdered that betrayed my parents."

Ron immediately knew who he was talking about. "Sirius," He whispered.

Harry nodded, pushing a hand back over his unruly hair. "When I met him... remember that night in third year? We were in the Shrieking Shack, and Sirius and Remus explained everything. I think the moment Sirius asked me to come and live with him... let's just say that's a good enough conversation to cast a Patronus."

"I felt so cursed when he died. I felt like... like, at last, I was experiencing a death of a parent. The bad part was that there were so many other ways I could have handled the situation. I could have used the two-way mirror Sirius gave me, or I could have told Snape, even if he was a git, or I could have tried harder at Occlumency..." Harry trailed off. He didn't want to continue. He tried to compose his nonchalant demeanor, but it was hurting him on the inside to talk about his godfather. "You know what the worst part was?" Harry's voice was almost inaudible..

"W-what?" Ron asked, willing himself to listen.

"After he died, Dumbledore came back to Hogwarts. He told me about the prophecy for the first time... about how I had to kill Voldemort. More than anything, I wanted to be with Sirius. Hell, I wanted to be with my parents. And then Dumbledore decides to tell me that I have to kill the Darkest wizard of our age. I don't think anyone knew how alone I felt. I kept shoving people off, but the smallest bit of me really wanted to talk to someone. The only problem was that the people I wanted so badly weren't here anymore." He paused, wondering if he should continue or not. Ron looked at him expectantly.

"Look... I'm not asking you to jump up and act like everything's fine. Because it's not, and Merlin knows when things will get better..."

"Mate, if this is your idea of a pep talk..."

"... but you're forgetting something really important. You're not alone. You could walk to the edge of the Earth and you wouldn't be alone. You could crawl into some dilapidated shack in Knockturn Alley and you wouldn't be alone. You could, I dunno, sit in the stomach of the Giant Squid and you _still_ wouldn't be alone. There's always gonna be people there for you. All you have to do is seek them out."

Harry stood up and grabbed the bag with Mrs. Weasley's food. He strode off into the kitchen, leaving Ron to contemplate his words.

* * *

"_Reparo,_" Kingsley muttered, pointing his wand at the window. The cracks etched into the surface of the glass repaired themselves instantly, and the sun once gleaming blindingly through them was subdued. He turned around, finding Mr. Granger sitting on the edge of a twin bed, holding a frame in his hands. Kingsley walked hesitantly towards him, not wanting to disrupt the obvious peace.

Jack traced his fingertips over the photo. A younger-looking version of his wife and himself smiled back at him, their fingers intertwined. He remembered the day vividly; it couldn't have been more than a year ago, after all. The two of them stood side by side on a beach with their feet hidden beneath the warm sand. He wore a pair of board shirts and a t-shirt; she wore a daring summer dress. He smiled at the ridiculous sun hat that completed her outfit. He bought it for her as a joke, but he was completely surprised when she obliged to wear it. He remembered her body leaning towards his, her whisper dancing in his ear. _It's the thought that counts_. And the proof was right there as their infectious smiles penetrated through the glass and touched Jack in a way he couldn't understand.

He caught sight of Kingsley staring at him, and noticed the fixed window behind him. "Thanks," He said genuinely, standing up. "Jean's been on my back to fix that for days."

Kingsley nodded in response. In a flash, he was standing next to him, pointing a finger at the photograph. "You two look very content," He observed.

Jack nodded. "Australia did wonders for us. You know... I've always thought this photograph was missing something, even after it was developed. I think I finally figured out who's supposed to be right there, standing between us."

Kingsley chuckled. "Took you long enough."

* * *

Hermione walked over to the sink, placing a kettle under the tap. The water sounded hard and loud as it hit the kettle, further embellishing the silence in the kitchen. She turned on the stove, leaving the kettle to boil. Wandering aimlessly around the kitchen, she found what she was looking for. It was sitting in the middle of a cupboard, surrounded by an array of spices. A glass container filled to the brim with the white crystals had a label on it. _Sugar_. Even in Australia, her parent's meticulous characteristics existed.

The kettle whistled and she walked over to the stove, marveling its spotless had been a long time since she used a stove, and even longer that she used a Muggle appliance. Tracing the flat surface with her fingertips, she was startled when she heard footsteps in the kitchen.

"Mrs. Weasley gave this to us before we came here." Harry's voice echoed unnaturally throughout the kitchen as he walked towards Hermione in strides.

She wordlessly took the bag from him, silently thanking Molly for her resourcefulness.

"I thought we could..." Harry trailed off, not bothering to finish his proposal. Hermione was already removing a plate from another cupboard, and taking the muffins out of the bag one by one.

"Need some help?" Harry asked. Not bothering to wait for her answer, he began to remove mugs from the same cupboard. Counting out six, he continued Hermione's task of arranging muffins on a plate while she placed a few teabags in the kettle. They moved around quietly, keeping out of each other's way and further enunciating the prolonged silence. Hermione was the one to cave in and break it.

"How is he?" She gestured towards the living room where Ron was presumably sitting.

Harry remained silent for a few seconds. "I think he'll be okay. We just... we just have to remind him about the things and the people that will always be there for him."

Hermione nodded, and continued to stare hopelessly at her hands, trying not to cry. Ron was hurting, but he wasn't open. He wasn't asking for help, and his stubborn side was emerging as he continued to brood by himself. He looked and felt so... _touchy_, as if he'd push himself away from anyone who tried to break through.

In an instant, Harry was by her side, hugging her. "He needs _you_," He whispered softly. "One of these days, he's going to admit it. But we can't push him." He pushed a few tendrils of hair out of her face, as she leaned her chin on his shoulder. "Besides, all three of us have been through almost everything. It wasn't supposed to be a big party after Voldemort was destroyed, you know?" His voice wavered a bit, but he used up every bit of pent-up energy to continue. "There are pieces to pick up, and so many people are gone... I know one thing, though. Together, there's nothing we can't do. And I'll be damned if we can't get through this."


	12. Drilling

All she remembers is the floor. It's normally warm and comforting beneath her bare feet, but as her arms break her fall, the floor turns cold and distant. Except now, she feels nothing of that description. She confusedly lifts her head and turns it, and her eyesight is still a bit blurry. She makes out something soft beneath her head, and she's certain that it isn't her bushy mass of curls. Instead, it's a pillow and a fluffy one too. She blinks a few more times, and the living room comes back into focus, along with what happened, leading her to this state. She feels like she has the worst headache to ever invade her mind, as she remembers her whirlwind of a day. She looks around the room, which hasn't changed, except for the fact that it's seriously lacking in people. The only thing -or _person_, for that matter- that she sees is Ron. She's pretty sure his last name is something like Weas... but she can't be too sure because her brain is a fumbled mess. She's sure that he's upset though, except a glimpse of defiance is also written across his troubled face. She can't understand why it's so difficult to make out the coffee table, but she can read this person easier than her worn copy of _Pride and Prejudice_.

Then again, he seems much more interesting.

* * *

Ron thought long and hard about what Harry said. He seriously thought he was dealing with this Fred situation in the correct way. The absurdity of this was that the agony and despair in his own home could not break him, but the mere image of Fred was enough to send him spiraling in darkness. It was strange and farfetched and it made no possible sense. Naturally, Ron could only think of one explanation.

_Merlin, I'm becoming a woman_.

But still, Harry had a point. He had loads of people that cared about him. Even though his mum wasn't exactly in the right state to offer solace, he still had his dad. Arthur Weasley was a lot more intuitive than people gave him credit for, and there were broad moments in Ron's childhood in which he could remember his dad setting things straight with his insight. Then, there was his mess of siblings. Even if George was the person to avoid, and Percy wasn't drowning fast enough in his guilt, he still had Bill, Charlie, and Ginny.

And _that_ was just his family.

Then there were his friends. Even though he was never too close to them, Dean and Seamus certainly could contemplate the Hellhole he was currently stuck in. Aside from the fact that it was blasphemously obvious, Dean spent a whole year on the run from Snatchers, and Seamus had countless Unforgivables thrown at him in exchange for expressing his loyalty for Dumbledore's Army. All in all, they were true Gryffindors, and Ron sincerely had little doubt that they wouldn't be there for him.

Of course, though all this mental list-making about people who were there for him was oddly comforting, Ron knew he could crumple it in the bin and still feel calm at the mention of one witch's name.

Hermione. Hermione Granger. _'Mione_.

If it wasn't for this entire Australia facade, things would definitely be different. For starters, he and Hermione would be getting closer and breaking down those awkward barriers of friendship. There wouldn't be any dancing around the two of them; it was out in the open that he loved her, and she loved him. As if that weren't enough, he'd find himself relying her. Finding her touch and her grace and her wits and her voice soothing in ways that made him shiver all the way down to his toes.

It was actually a little painful to finally be where he wanted to be with Hermione, only to have to relentlessly put themselves on hold. She still had so many other things to do- first and foremost: getting her parents out of Australia- and being a needy, unsupportive nag would help no one. Even screwing up _that_ badly was beyond Ron's measure, and everyone knew it.

So he would wait. He waited seven years, and he'd wait seven more if he had to.

He knew that it was entirely worth it.

* * *

Harry and Hermione walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Their hands were full with a tray containing mugs of tea and a platter covered with muffins. Hermione nearly dropped her tray, though, at the sight of her mother, who was groggily attempting to sit up on the sofa. She quickly walked to the coffee table, and gingerly set down her tray before tending to her mother. As her mother eased herself against a cushion Hermione had placed behind her back, she visibly relaxed.

"Here, Mum," Hermione said, holding out a cup of tea. "Drink this."

Jean didn't need another request to oblige, and noisily sipped her tea. Suddenly, she felt famished, and hastily reached out for a muffin. She bit into it aggressively, savoring it's moist quality and delectable flavor. She looked up, out of curiosity, and was surprised to find three sets of eyes all etched with worry looking right back at her. A long silence stretched before Hermione spoke.

"Mum, are you alright?" She asked tentatively. "You took a really bad fall earlier."

"That would explain the throbbing pain in my head," She muttered dryly, rubbing her temple. She heaved a great sigh, before sipping her tea again. She noticed that there were two people short in the room. "Where are your father and the Minister?" She glanced around the room, as if expecting for them to pop out of a decorative vase or dustbin.

"They went upstairs a while ago. Dad mentioned something about fixing a broken window."

"Could you bring them downstairs, dear? It will give you a chance to look around the house."

"Sure thing, Mum. Are you sure you'll be okay without me here?"

Jean nodded. "Don't worry about me, Hermione. Ron and Harry are here to keep me company, after all."

The two boys blushed, and Jean smiled jauntily. She continued to sip her tea as Hermione clambered up the stairs.

* * *

The winding staircase that twisted around the stairs looked regal, and made Hermione feel like royalty. The plush carpet beneath her tickled the bottoms of her feet as she picked up her pace. The stairs were nothing like those of the Burrow's, which creaked and groaned incessantly. Hermione sighed as her observations brought her back to the Burrow once again. Was it just her imagination, or was she thinking about that sanctuary more and more as each minute passed?

She reached the second level of the home, and peered down the long hallway. A delicate wallpaper and several photo frames swallowed the walls. Hermione fingered the photographs, catching glimpses of her parents beaming at her. Once again, either her imagination was running wild or her parents were giving the impression that they actually enjoyed Australia. The proof was in the pictures, after all.

She continued to walk down the hall way, and found a door that stood slightly ajar. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard faint voices coming from inside. This was indeed the guest bedroom. She walked over towards the door, and hesitantly pushed it open. The space was small, but roomy. A twin bed was pushed against the wall, and it was decorated with several pillows and a matching bedspread. In another corner was a makeshift desk with a lamp, currently occupied by Kingsley and Jack. A vanity took a small part of the opposite wall, complete with a mirror, hairbrushes, and other cosmetic products.

It was as if her parents knew she would return all along.

She simply stood there for a few minutes, drinking in the scene in front of her when she found her father and Kingsley looking at her bemusedly. The two of them were sitting down- Jack in a wooden chair and Kingsley in a leather armchair. Hermione could see rolls of official-looking parchment and quills littering the desk.

"Is everything alright downstairs, Hermione? Is something wrong with your mother?" A worried expression settled on his face, his composed demeanor clearly gone.

"Mum just woke up, actually. She was asking for you and Kingsley."

"Did she drink the glass of water we put aside for her?" Kingsley asked.

"Er... no," Hermione stuttered, still feeling sheepish under the Minister's gaze. "We gave her tea, though."

Kingsley's eyes smiled. Apparently, this was the correct response. "Even better. It should calm her down a bit, and help her regain her strength."

Hermione nodded. "I assume the window's fixed?"

All three of them took a few moments to gaze out the window. It was large and wide, giving a brilliant view of everything outside below the second floor.

Jack nodded in response. "Yes. Kingsley repaired it." He scratched the back of his head. "We would have come down sooner, but we were discussing all the things we would need to do prior to leaving Australia. We must have lost track of time."

"Like what?" Hermione asked. "I knew you would have to sell the house, unless you wanted to keep it."

"We _are_ going to sell the house, dear. But your mother and I also need to quit our jobs at our respective dentistry's. We also need to sell our cars, assuming that we still have our old ones back in Britain..." He suddenly looked alarmed. "We still have our cars and our house, right Hermione?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. The real estate agency thinks you're abroad on a trip for some extended dentist convention."

"Did you, er... do the whole wand swishy flick thing on them too and convince them?" Jack was looking appalled.

Hermione concealed a grin at her father's choice of words. "Actually, no. _You_ did. At least the convincing part. Right after I performed the memory charm on you and Mum, I made sure that the two of you called the agency. Everything is okay back home; I'm sure of it."

Jack released the breath he was holding. "That's a relief. Then yes, we'll need to sell our cars, and most of the furniture here. The rest, we'll need to pack up. Also, we need to cancel any insurance plans, contracts..." He turned around and briefly glanced at the parchment on the desk. "Most of the things we need to do won't take that long. The only problem is that there's a _lot_ of things to do."

"I also need to return to the Ministry of Magic in Britain to arrange in International Portkey," Kingsley spoke up. "It's a lot harder when the two destinations are so far away from each other. We'll need an exact date from your parents of when you plan on returning home, and we'll need to deliver the bewitched objects to you as well. You'll probably have about 5 or 6, and we need to secure the locations you'll be traveling through. Also, I'll need to contact a few Auror trainees to bring your luggage and travel along with you."

"Why would we need Aurors, though?" Hermione asked, feeling a little bewildered from all the information being thrown at her. "Surely we can manage with the luggage on our own. We can bewitch it and shrink it; it wouldn't be a problem on our parts."

"Ah, but you're forgetting one thing, Hermione Granger."

"Sir, what's that?"

"Well, the fact that you _are_ Hermione Granger. Voldemort has been defeated, but several Death Eaters and Pureblood fanatics are still on the loose. The stunts you, Harry, and Ron pulled last year won't have them pleased with you. You'll need all the protection you can receive. Unfortunately, there are very few Aurors in our department right now, and they've all been sent on various missions to round up any troublemakers. That's why I'm arranging for the trainees to accompany you and your family. They are qualified enough to protect people and repel Dark magic, but they'll need a bit more training in order to accompany the more advanced Aurors. The job of protecting your family on your travels back to Britain is very important on their behalf."

"We'll be safe, won't we Minister?" The worry lines returned on Mr. Granger's face.

"Judging by all of the protective charms around your lot," Kingsley began, "I can assure you that you will be safe. However, it will be hard to maintain that type of protection once you're traveling across the world."

"Kingsley, why can't we just apparate?" Hermione asked. "It's definitely faster."

Kingsley scratched his chin. "You _could_ apparate. In fact, that's how I brought Harry and Ron here. It will be much harder, though, to Side-Along Apparate three people with several belongings. It actually increases the chance of splinching. Besides, the Ministry would feel much better if you took the necessary precautions and used Portkeys."

"Of course," Hermione answered. "Anyway, I don't think my parents have ever apparated before. The sensation must feel even more strange when you're apparating to somewhere so far away." She directed her attention towards her father. "Dad, how long will it take for us to take care of everything?"

"I'd say a good four weeks, dear," Mr. Granger responded. "There are a lot of little things your Mum and I need to do. Also, I'm sure your Mum would like to spend her last few weeks here with ease."

"Right..." Hermione said, not bothering to finish her sentence. Her smile faltered at the thought of being away from Ron for four weeks, especially at a time like this when he was feeling so low. Then again, she hadn't seen her parents in almost a year, and with every intent of returning to Hogwarts in September, she wanted to make these weeks worthwhile. Still, she wanted to return to the Burrow soon. "Dad, do you think we'd be back in Britain by July 31st? It's Harry's eighteenth birthday, so of course it will be really important..."

"Of course we'll be back by then, dear," Mr. Granger said. "I know your friends mean a lot to you. I assume you'll be staying at the Burrow for the rest of the summer?" He gave her a knowing smile.

Hermione blushed, and fiddled with her hands. "Well, yes," She responded. "If that's okay with you and Mum, of course."

"Don't worry, love. You can always do that Apparition thing, so you can visit us during the summer without a problem. And now that you're seventeen, you can do magic outside of school, correct?"

"Yes. I can visit you at home several times a day, if you'd like. It'd be perfectly legal."

"Might I make a suggestion?" Kingsley asked. "I could connect your residence in Britain to the Floo Network. It'd make transportation easier, and it wouldn't interfere with the protection charms I'll have around your home."

"That's very kind of you, Kingsley," Mr. Granger said heartily. "I think that's a fine idea."

"It certainly is," said Hermione, filled with appreciation and gratitude for the Minister. "Anyway, Mum's probably wondering where on Earth we are. Shall we go downstairs?"

"Yes, dear," Mr. Granger answered. "I hope you made several cups of tea, Hermione. I could certainly use one myself. How about it, Minister?"

"It sounds delightful," Kingsley responded. "Mrs. Weasley, Ron's Mum, baked us some muffins to take along with us as well. And I have been dying to try them." He flicked his wand at the comfy armchair, which transfigured into a small chest of drawers. With a simple Hover Charm, he placed it back in it's original spot.

The three of them made their way downstairs, with Hermione feeling considerably lighter than she did earlier that day.

* * *

Hermione sighed, leading out Kingsley, Ron, and Harry into the yard. After arranging to keep in touch with Kingsley and Ron by Ministry owls, the Minister and the two boys made plans to return home. The charms around the house allowed Kingsley and Hermione to apparate in and out of the area, leaving Harry and Ron to rely on Side-Along in order to leave. Harry, sensing that Hermione and Ron wanted to exchange their goodbyes a bit more privately, discreetly tried to distract Kingsley.

"Kingsley, sir," Harry began. "How is the Auror department looking these days?"

"Not too well, Harry. One of our Aurors was seriously injured with Dark Magic last week..."

Hermione and Ron used the opportunity to step away to a more private part of the yard. A couple of blooming hibiscuses loomed around this particular side of the yard, and it resembled the only thing close to romantic among the grass and shrubs. Ron instinctively reached out for Hermione's hand and grasped it in his own. He rubbed the front side of it with his thumb, looking straight into Hermione's eyes as he did so. It sent shivers down her spine as she found herself mesmerized in the depths in them. For the first time in the last hour or two, they weren't blazing. Instead, they looked tender and loving, and even a bit inviting.

"I'm really going to miss you," He said, with an emotion he didn't even know he possessed. "I'm going to miss this new.. erm, _development_ in our relationship." He blushed a famous shade of Weasley red, causing Hermione to giggle. His eyes narrowed playfully at her. "What are _you_ laughing at, 'Mione? You know I'm not one of those sensitive blokes!" He reached out and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, leaving his fingertips on her cheek longer than necessary. He bent down, so his lips were right next to her ear. "You wanna know what else I'm going to miss?" He whispered.

Hermione nodded, breathless at this new type of contact between them.

He continued to whisper in her ear. "I'm going to miss looking in your eyes, love. I'm going to miss running my fingers through your hair that I'm absolutely mad about, and I'm going to miss feeling the softness of your face. I'm going to miss you scolding me about swearing, and I'm going to miss that passionate look in your eyes whenever I pick a row with you. But most of all... I'm going to miss that connection me and you have-"

"It's 'you and I," Hermione interrupted. She smirked at him playfully.

Ron turned his head to look at her, and stared at her for a few seconds looking incredulous. "Bloody hell, Hermione! Here I am, practically pouring my heart out to you, and all you can do is _correct my grammar_?

"Please, Ronald. I'm just looking out for you." She grinned cheekily at him.

Ron groaned. "Well, I'm sure you can think of better ways to look out for me! I mean, _honestly,_ 'it's you and I!' And to think that you constantly deny that you're a know-it-all-"

"Ron?" Hermione interrupted again.

He stopped speaking. "Yeah?"

She grinned mischievously and stood on her toes so she was a bit taller. She leaned forward, looked him square in the eye, and whispered, "Shut up." Hermione snaked her arm around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss, to which Ron eagerly responded. He ran his lips across hers, and she followed suit. In only a few seconds, she felt those glorious shocks running through her body. A pleasant tingling overcame her, and she felt herself go limp against Ron as they lost themselves in their kiss. His fingertips found their way into her hair again, and hers did the same as she caressed his long, red locks in between her fingers. The passion was clearly evident between the two of them, and Hermione felt absolutely giddy. Finally, after so many years of longing and dreaming and wishing and crying and adoring from far away, Hermione was finally getting somewhere with Ron.

Eventually, Ron pulled away. She whimpered at the loss of his touch, and looked at him with questioning eyes.

"Believe me, love, I don't want to stop. Kingsley's probably going to notice that I've disappeared into some dark corner to snog my girlfriend, and I'd rather not call any attention to that. Besides, I don't think it'd make a very good impression if your parents caught us going at each other like this."

"So," Hermione said, lacing her fingers with his. "I'm your girlfriend now?"

Ron looked a little embarrassed at first at her question, but caught on when he saw the playfulness in her eyes. He smirked, and folded his lean arms across his built chest. "Well, after giving me a snog like that, I'd hate to think otherwise."

She blushed, and out of nowhere, a nagging question interrupted the peace in her mind. Before she knew it, she blurted it out. "Am I better than Lavender?" She asked meekly, not wanting to meet Ron's eyes.

Her question threw him off completely, and he felt flabbergasted as to why Hermione would even think that. He reached out a finger and lifted Hermione's chin with it, so she was forced to meet his gaze. "'Mione... god, how in the name of Merlin can I answer that when clearly there's no competition?"

Hermione couldn't help herself; she grinned broadly at Ron's answer. For once, he said something right.

Ron returned her grin, and asked a question of his own. "So, Hermione, am I better than Vicky?"

Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation. "Honestly, Ronald! To bring him up at at a time like this..." She trailed off, but a giggle managed to escape her lips. "And to answer your question, _yes_, you are much better than _Viktor_."

"Good," He whispered, wrapping his arms around her waist and enveloping her into a hug. Hermione felt perfectly content with her head next to his chest, and she found herself soothed by the sound of his heart beating. She could feel his chin resting against her head, and was incredibly pleased at the lack of uncomfortable ness between the two of them. She closed her eyes and sighed at the bliss she was currently experiencing. The sound of Harry's voice calling Ron, however, interrupted it.

He broke away from her, and spoke to Harry over his shoulder. "I'll be there in a minute!" He called, before turning back to look at Hermione. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked at her for a few moments before speaking. "It's not going to be easy being away from you. But I know when you get back, it will all be worth it."

Hermione began to speak, but Ron silenced her.

"'Mione, I've waited for you for a long time. I've waited for this longer than you can imagine." He gesticulated between the two of them with one of his large hands. "We've been through so much together, and we've still remained friends. And I'm going to believe that this distance between us for the next few weeks isn't going to break us, either. It's definitely going to be hard on my part, but when you come back home, it will all be worth it. I swear." He leaned forward and placed a small, tender kiss on her forehead.

"Oh Ron..." Hermione began, feeling breathless. "I'm going to miss you too. But I'll owl you everyday; I promise. And If you ever need to talk to someone, you'll know that you can owl me too. If you're ever feeling low, or sad, then you should know that I can't turn away from you. We'll get through this, and when I come back there better be a million kisses waiting for me."

"Well, if you _insist_."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Prat." Still, she continued to smile at him widely. She led him to the apparition point, and she was forced to let go of his hands as he linked arms with Kingsley.

With one last fleeting glance, she let her eyes linger upon Harry for a moment, before focusing on Ron. He smiled at her, his blue eyes dancing. She smiled back, and lifted her hand up to wave goodbye.

And then, they were gone.


	13. Stars and Butterflies

She woke up, feeling strange and unnatural. A few glances around the room confirmed the darkness. Only the wide moon spilling through the wide window provided light, and it was oddly comforting as the rays and beams passed through her. It was a scene straight out of a storybook, where the princess is distraught and needs her white knight in shining armor to gallantly rescue her, and together they would ride away into the moonlight on top of his noble steed.

Unfortunately, the white knight in shining armor was nowhere in vicinity, and was too busy being consumed by airborne grief in an old, magical house.

So much for fairytales.

* * *

No matter how tight the curtains were shut, the sun always managed to penetrate through them. It was kind, though, as its light never woke them up at an ungodly hour. The sun woke them up at the _right_ hour, giving them enough time to bathe and eat a decent breakfast before heading off to their jobs. They were close, of course, but working at the same dentistry was a little too ludicrous. So every morning, they made their trek in opposite directions. After all, Sydney was a big town. Maybe they'd meet each other in Hyde Park and eat at that quaint Chinese restaurant with a few coworkers. All of it seemed so _right_, just like the sun. In fact, that was the perfect word to describe Australia, a place that had enchanted them in ways unimaginable.

That was the reason why Jean Granger couldn't be angry with her daughter. Not an ounce of contempt seeped through her insides and sought out Hermione, who (if one analyzed the situation closely would realize) had down nothing wrong. She protected them, and it must have caused a great deal of pain on her part. She inadvertently sent them to the perfect country. In fact, playing the 'You made us waste a year of our lives' card was practically impossible, because in reality, they did no such thing.

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and straightened out her nightclothes, Jean continued to think these things. It had been a raging battle in her mind that night, and when sleep finally greeted her, she found the same predicaments in her dreams. Heaving a great sigh, she pulled the curtains apart in her bedroom. It was a ritual she performed every morning. She felt that she was never truly awake until she forced herself out of bed and used both arms to pull apart the curtains, letting the sunlight warm her body.

The sun immediately filtered into the room, and its light told her that Jack's side of the bed was empty. Sure enough, the sheets were wrinkled in the place he had slept, but his body was nowhere to be found. Instead, a medium-sized piece of parchment lay on his pillow, making Jean smile broadly at the gesture. It was a way they often communicated, and was romantic in its own special ways.

_Jean,_

_I plan on going to work today, but not after visiting the Real Estate Office first. I talked to a representative on the phone today, and for the first ten bloody minutes, he kept offering me these ridiculous deals. Finally, I got a word in edgewise, and I made an appointment to receive all those forms to make our house legible on the Seller's Market. It's a relief he even gave me an appointment on such short notice. It's going to be a long day at the dentistry too; I need to get resignation forms. I wish I could spend the day with you and Hermione (I know you don't have work today). Maybe we could take her to Darling Harbor soon. Remember the first time we went? You nearly fell into the water out of excitement! Anyway, I give my love to you and (especially) Hermione and I will see my two favorite girls later tonight._

_Love, _

_Jack_

She picked up the parchment and held it to her heart, before yanking out a bottom drawer and placing it tenderly with all the others. It was a kind gesture, after all, and its efforts were not to be wasted.

* * *

Hermione woke up for the fourth time, and was startled to find the sun greeting her instead of the moon. It had been a long, quiet night and Hermione discovered that sleeping alone was not soothing in the least bit. After all, she shared a dormitory for six years, a tent for one year, and a bedroom in all the summers and breaks in-between. She longed to see another twin bed crammed in an opposite corner inhabited by a sleeping body.

The smells of breakfast cooking from downstairs gave her the alertness she needed to navigate in the morning. For a moment, she was brought back to the Burrow, where Molly Weasley's superb cooking could be smelled all over the house though it did not smother one's lungs. She closed her eyes, and was disappointed to find herself in the same exact spot when she opened them. A good look around the room told her that as she glanced at the chest of drawers and the bed she was lying in.

She hitched down her nightie, which had ridden up a bit during the night in which she was constantly tossing and turning. The feelings of guilt and remorse made sleep come harder and as she glanced at her reflection in the vanity mirror, she saw that her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair looked ghastly. Grunting a bit, she reached out for a hairbrush and proceeded to tame her mess of curls. When her common sense finally kicked in, she opted for her wand. It had been an entire year since she had eaten breakfast with her parents. The least she could do was look respectable.

* * *

The sun was just setting behind a few lazy hills, forming as a backdrop for a pleasantly still Hogsmeade. Minerva McGonagall's robes fluttered as she walked along a cobblestone path, her face set into grim concentration. After a few tedious moments, she finally settled on the Hog's Head over The Three Broomsticks and changed directions abruptly. The pub she chose to go to was rather nefarious, and if that wasn't enough to turn one away, the place was utterly dismal and the glassware dirty. She produced a wand out of the pocket of her black, velvet robes, and conjured a goblet before stepping in through the door.

The place was more or less empty, disregarding a lone goat wandering around the counter. It was unlike the friendly barmaids and jovial atmosphere that inhabited The Three Broomsticks; The Hog's Head was a place for spotty, distinctive wizards and witches. It certainly was not a place to find a prim, prudent Headmistress, but circumstances changed things one could not control.

"Evening," Aberforth said gruffly, not even bothering to lift his head up away from the grimy counter. He was pushing a dirty rag across the surface of the blackened wood, concentrating on removing a particularly stubborn stain. His appearance was no different from what it was, say, seventeen years ago. His beard still hung limply from a modest chin and his spectacles remained perched on the bridge of his nose, though the style did not make him appear wise, but rather hasty.

Minerva tipped the brim of her hat, though the act was futile as Aberforth continued to gaze at the wood. She noticed the uselessness of the gesture and cleared her throat instead, which gave her a good bit of the man's attention. "Evening, Aberforth. Any blackguards been by?"

"Not in the past week, no. I reckon they're scuttling away and finding better places to scheme. It's not safe here so close to Hogwarts, especially since the Ministry isn't made up of bloody fools anymore."

The old witch winced at his use of profanity, but made no attempt to reprimand him. Instead, she settled herself in a wooden chair and nodded at his information. "We'll have to alert Kingsley, of course. I'm sure he's back from Australia with Mr. Potter and Weasley by now."

"He wasn't at the meeting? You didn't see him?"

She shook her head no and rearranged her hands in her lap. "It's been hard for him, of course. Now that he's Minister, he has to address several issues, minor and major."

Aberforth, clearly annoyed with the counter, tossed the rag away into a bucket. "Always preferred working behind the scenes," He said, his voice hoarse.

"That you did," Minerva responded dryly.

He ignored her comment and reached a hand into the hollows of a counter. "You just passing by or do you want something to drink?"

She pursed her lips for a moment, before pulling the goblet out of her pocket.

His face contorted as the ends of his lips twitched upward. It was a cross between a grimace and a smile, but it was obviously a sign that Aberforth was amused. "I see you came prepared. Well, what'll it be? Pumpkin juice? Butterbeer? Feeling daring enough to try some Odgen's?"

Her moderate glare quieted him, though it did not entirely subdue the man. "Ah... I'm feeling young. A butterbeer, please." She placed the goblet timidly onto the counter as Aberforth's hand emerged from behind the counter with a flask of the warm liquid. He poured her glass with the drink to the brim, earning him a disapproving look from Minerva. He merely shrugged, and reached for his own small bottle of Firewhisky, taking a liberal sip.

"How's Albus doing?" He asked, finally breaking a comfortable silence. He took a smaller swig of Firewhisky and slammed it on the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Minerva grimaced at his gesture, but decided to ignore it in lieu of his question. "He's fine, I suppose. Though I suspect he's a bit mad for engaging in sword fighting with Sir Cadogan practically every other night."

Aberforth snorted into his bottle of Odgen's, though he chose to not say anything.

She raised her goblet to her lips in a typical ladylike fashion. She swallowed her butterbeer and felt the familiar warmth spreading inside of her, wondering how an old woman like herself could experience such a simple pleasure. "By the way, I was wondering if you wanted a portrait of him... somewhere." She glanced around the pub, taking note of the gloomy aura.

For the first time that evening, Aberforth looked her directly in the eye. His bright, blue eyes brought forth such painful memories as Minerva marveled at how similar they were to those of Albus. Enchanting the same, and yet they belonged to an entirely person. He opened his mouth a few times, only to shut it tightly. Finally, he found the words he was looking for.

"I wouldn't find that entirely necessary. I have all the company I need." Not bothering to be subtle, he jerked his head in the direction of his sister's portrait, Ariana. The young girl smiled serenely back at them, though there was a glassy look to her eye as if her mind was in a far away place. The look in his eyes changed as he gazed at his sister's features; an expression of fondness and nostalgia overtook his face.

The elderly Headmistress felt a little startled at his bluntness, but nonetheless composed herself. "I understand," She said softly. Not wanting to press the matter any further, she drank the last of her butterbeer. As soon as she finished, she disposed of the goblet with a simple Vanishing spell. "I best be off, Aberforth. I'll be back again in a few days time." She reached into her pocket, removing a handful of Sickles.

Aberforth waved her hand away, but suddenly stopped, as if considering something. "Well..." He began, looking sheepish, "maybe just one." He gingerly picked a Sickle from her immaculate hand.

Minerva waved a hand in exasperation, and pocketed the rest of her currency. She tipped the brim of her hat once more, and this time, Aberforth noticed. "Thank you for the _almost_ free butterbeer. I'll be seeing you soon."

Aberforth mock-bowed at the woman, prompting her to roll her eyes. She swiftly walked out of the pub, pulling a heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was a warm, summer evening, but a few chills swept about the small town. Hogsmeade was inactive and quiet, with the exception of owners locking their shops and apparition cracks.

The stillness of the night soothed her, but she knew it was reckless to wander around like this. For what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, she removed her wand from her pocket, and apparated herself to the very edge of Hogsmeade where the walk to Hogwarts would be quicker.

Argus Filch would be approaching her the moment she set a toe into the castle, ready to recite a saga of his repairing of the castle. It was highly unnecessary, but it kept the old man busy. Still, his attempts were almost useless in some cases, as most damage in the castle could only be fixed with magic.

She bit her lip in frustration at all the things she needed to do. Rounding up the old gang to help her and call in favors didn't sound like a bad idea in the least bit. Right now, though, she didn't want to think of anything of the sort.

It was a short walk until Hogwarts came into full view, but this was one of the moments that Minerva savored. The path was all too familiar, freeing her mind from thinking of the steps she took and the echoes that ricocheted off of them. It was also the perfect distance, giving her the right amount of time to mull over her thoughts without overworking her already tired senses. And though this sweet bliss only lasted for a few minutes, it still brought warmth over her that even the largest bottle of butterbeer could not provide. It was short and refined, yet undisturbed.

It was peace, at last.

* * *

Jean wiped her hands on a dishcloth and walked out of the kitchen. She made her way upstairs and continued to walk down the hall. It was a sort of tradition for her to wake up, freshen herself, cook breakfast, walk to her daughter's bedroom, pry an unusually large book out of her hands and drag her downstairs to eat said breakfast.

This morning was no different as she gave the bedroom door a light push. The only factor that did not compromise with her original routine was that an unusually large book was _not_ in Hermione's hands. Instead, she was sitting up in her bed cross-legged and running her wand over her hair. As soon as she caught sight of her mother, she moved her wand out of sight.

"Oh!" Hermione said, startled. Her cheeks began to grow red. "I'm sorry... it was... my hair was so tangled..."

Jean sensed her daughter's uneasiness, and sought to make her feel a little more comfortable. "Don't worry, dear. You're hair _can_ be quite bothersome. Anyway, come downstairs. It's time to eat breakfast." She turned on her heel and walked out the room.

Hermione, unsure of where to place her wand, finally decided to stow it away in the pocket of her nightie. She followed her mother downstairs and into the kitchen, where a full fledged English breakfast was waiting for her. Jean gestured for her to sit down, and a plate sat waiting for her piled with eggs, hash browns, and a few slices of toast. Hermione noticed, however, that there were only two place settings.

"Where's Dad?"

Jean turned around from the stove, where she was placing tea leaves into a kettle of boiling water. "He had to go to work and the Real Estate Office, Hermione. I expect he won't be back until later this evening." She turned back to the stove and resumed preparing the tea.

Hermione nodded and went back to her breakfast, wondering if it was possible to drown herself in her eggs; she would attempt anything to escape this awkward tension. Before she knew it, she blurted it out.

It was a question that sometimes came across her mind. When she was feeling angst or alone, her thoughts would deliberately lead her to the brink that changed her life and that of her parents. She knew it wasn't necessarily her fault, considering that she hadn't hand picked her genes. Still, it was the reason for a lot of things, including why she was sitting in an unfamiliar kitchen with something pointy protruding out of her pockets in the middle of bloody Australia.

"Are you and dad angry because I'm a witch?"

The saucer that Jean was holding fell from her limp fingers; luckily, it hit the counter. The vibrating noise that followed as the saucer continued to rock in place filled the abrupt silence in the kitchen. Slowly, she turned around and walked to the table, taking her seat across of Hermione. Her daughter kept her eyes on her plate, with both hands on either side of her. Her hands were clenched into fists; her knuckles were white.

Jean reached out a hand and tenderly placed it over Hermione. The touch seemed to deliver the desired effect as Hermione relaxed a bit.

"You know your Nana and Grandpa very well, don't you?"

A question answered with a question, and it completely threw Hermione off. She shook her head no, though her eyes remained looking down.

Jean cleared her throat. "Even when I could barely take two steps forward, it was obvious that I was intelligent. I had a sort of... _curiosity_ for life and I took to satisfying it. At the same time, my parents took to satisfying their pride at their daughter's mind. As soon as I learned to read, I insisted on checking out all books from the library that I could reach. My obsession, when I was about seven or so, was fairy tales. As I grew older, though, I would fine books of true literature subtly placed in my bookshelves. It was my parent's way of telling me to 'grow up'." She grimaced a little, but nonetheless continued to speak.

"Your grandparents were incredibly practical. Today, it is hard for me to deny the fact that I lived a balanced life growing up. I socialized and I learned. I took long walks with my girlfriends and I learned about physics. I baked scones on Saturday afternoons with Nana and I tuned into the news with your Grandpa on some evenings. A balanced life it was..."

For a moment, she paused. Picking up her butter knife, she placed it into the jar of jam on the table and began to spread the sticky paste on a slice of toast. Midway through spreading, though, she stopped and slammed the knife down on the plate with such an aggression that made Hermione jump in her seat. She lifted up her eyes to look at her mother.

"I wanted something _more_, though. I wanted something that... I wanted something to believe in. Something that gave me hope and courage; something that told me that there's more to life than just the facts. Essentially, I wanted something magical." She took a bite of her toast and chewed thoughtfully for a moment, before continuing.

"Your grandparents practically threw me into dentist school, you know. I suppose I was lucky, since most girls my age wouldn't be caught dead in school. I remember for one of my classes, there were seventy four students enrolled, and I was the _only_ girl there. Some of my dreadfully conservative relatives found this extremely scandalous, but my parents continued to push me. Often, when things got hard, or when my wishes weren't granted, I'd think about quitting. Just... leaving and taking the path that a lot of women my age were already trotting along. It was your father though, who changed that. Isn't funny how an incredibly independent woman like me chose to stay in a situation because of a _man_?" She chuckled to herself.

"Was that the magic you found? Was it in Dad all along?"

Jean pursed her lips. "Not exactly, love. Your father came from a similar family like mine. His parents told him to forget about all of that rubbish and simply focus on what was right in front of him. Unlike me, though, your father embraced it. That's just the way he was; always making the best out of a difficult situation. Those years with him in school were absolutely wonderful. He taught me so many things that didn't necessarily relate to the curriculum. I believed that I learned some of life's greatest lessons with him. Though this is a lesson for another day, I can't help but stress that this is what true love is about. You feel as if you have all the answers on the back of your hand, and someone steps in and proves you wrong. Some people feel that this is a blow to their ego, but dear, those are the people who never find true love."

"What you mean," Hermione said slowly, "is that you can be the smartest person in the world, but the presence of someone else can make all that knowledge seem worthless."

"It's different for everyone, Hermione. But yes, you've got the right idea. That _is_ true love. And I completely believe in it. The glorious thing about it is that it's so common, and yet it is the purest form of magic that even the blind can see. And yet... that wasn't what I was looking for. But, with your father by my side, I finished dentist school. With your father by my side, the two of us married each other. Most importantly, with your father by my side, I had _you_. Call it mother's intuition, but the day were you born, I knew there was something special about you. You were not a normal baby, in any sense. You showed the same types of intelligence I had once displayed as a child. The thing that really confirmed my theories was what you did to your father."

"What was that?"

"Well, you did quite a few things that raised our eyebrows. I remember when you were about three years old, your father came home with an absolutely hideous shirt. The fabric print was just awful. One of our relatives gave it to him as a birthday present before they moved to Dublin. Anyway, you were sitting at home with me, and we were playing with one of your coloring books. You learned 'orange' that day, and chanted it to anyone within earshot. Your father came home and tried on that shirt, and you continued to scream 'orange' at a deafening volume, and before we knew it, the suit turned orange!"

"I bet you two thought you were going off your rocker," Hermione said, a smile forming on her lips.

"Of course we did! We couldn't tell anyone, though. Mind you, the two of us would most likely end up in the psychiatric ward for a good seventy-two hours. That idea certainly did not sound appealing. Anyway, this completely threw us off guard. There were a few other... 'incidents' like this, but other than that, you were a lovely child. The 'orange blunder', as I like to call it, wasn't what told me you were special. It was the way your father's eyes lit up when he looked at you. Sometimes he'd come home from the dentistry, looking like he was going to keel over any minute. And then you'd come into view, and every trace of feeling tired would disappear from his face. You meant a lot to your father, Hermione. You still do."

Those few words did wonders to Hermione's insides. She was particularly close to her father, and always assumed they loved each other equally. Hearing this, however, made her feel so much better.

Jean continued. "That's one of the reasons we decided to not have any more children. I think your father always had this fear that he couldn't love another child as much as he loved you." For a few minutes, the two of them sat in silence, eating their breakfast. Hermione realized she was absolutely famished, having eaten only a muffin the day before, and devoured her eggs.

Jean broke the silence. "And now, to complete my saga and to answer your question."

"Mum, you really don't have to."

"No, Hermione." Jean's voice was firm. "If you have any doubts about this, I need to tell you otherwise. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your childhood. As you grew older, and don't mind me saying this dear, but you were a bit of a wallflower. Part of it was because you found solace in books and didn't find the company of people as appealing. You were also very mature for your age, and, of course, you did a lot of strange things when you were younger, like changing Susan Bennett's hair color to purple."

"If she didn't rub in the fact that she was holding hands with Jimmy Galloway and push my head into the sand..."

"Yes, that girl was quite a tart."

Hermione giggled. "Mother!" She admonished. "Such language!"

Jean smiled. "Believe me, dear. There are quite a few other words that I can use to describe that girl. Regardless, I must continue on with the story. I was worried about you when you were a child, but I desperately did not want for you to change. If you did, I would fear that those special qualities you possessed would also disappear. Of course, one day in our lives proved to be the best and the worst. It answered all of our questions and still had an air of mystery."

Hermione swallowed. "The day my Hogwarts letter came."

"Precisely, love. It was the summer after you turned eleven, and I remember an owl arriving through our kitchen window. The strangest thing was that it was addressed to you. Mind you, you did receive mail, like your grade reports and what not. But those were always addressed 'to the _parents_ of Hermione Granger'. This letter, though, made no mention of parents. At the time that it came, your father and I were in the kitchen, and you were upstairs. Your father and I shared the master bedroom, while yours was slightly smaller. It was next to the hall closet, which you used to stow away all your books when your shelves were filled to the brim. The letter said your name, followed by your _exact_ location. 'Hermione Granger. The second biggest bedroom next to the hall closet.' I was blown out of my mind! At first, I thought some crazed kidnapper was coming to snatch you away from us!"

"I remember!" Hermione exclaimed. "You and Dad ran into my room, and when you saw me, the two of you hugged me so hard that I thought my lungs would collapse."

Jean grinned sheepishly. "It _was_ a scary situation, dear. When we read the letter, I was shocked. Your father looked like he was going to faint right on the spot! And then there were all the technicalities, and the purchasing of your school things and it was quite a whirlwind that day. I've never told anyone this, but that day, my heart was swelling with happiness. I was so pleased! Do you know why, Hermione?"

"Enlighten me."

Jean playfully slapped Hermione's hand lightly, but nonetheless continued to smile. "I finally found my magic," She whispered. Jean closed her eyes for a moment, and a wistful expression appeared on her face. When she began to speak again, her voice was much louder. "I found my magic. It wasn't in a dentist office and it wasn't in your father's enormous heart. It was in you, all along." Her eyes filled with tears. "When you asked me if I was angry with you being a witch, I was completely caught off guard. How can something that is so bliss and purse make me angry? It's just not possible."

"Wow..." Hermione mumbled. "I never knew you felt that way. I always that you and Dad were mad because I wasn't going to school here and I wasn't living at home for the greater part of the year. It seemed so hard for you to let go."

"Of course it was hard for us to let go, Hermione! To send your child to a boarding school is one thing, but to send your _only_ child to a school that you could not even see with your own two eyes at the tender age of eleven is something completely different. The emotions you saw were not that of anger. It's something that all parents have to go through, whether they like it or not. We just had to experience it a bit earlier. Your father and I could never be angry for a fate you didn't choose. Besides, you were so happy at Hogwarts. You were excelling in all of your classes and making new friends. It was the right place for you, and your father and I were willing to accept that. We were never angry with you, Hermione. Your father could never feel that towards you because his love for you excels any capacity. I could never feel that towards you because, to bluntly put it, you were the living proof that my wishes were answered." Jean finished the rest of her tea with one, long sip. "Now go take a shower, dear. We have a lot to do today."

Hermione nodded, still feeling dumbfounded. She stood up and carried her plate to the sink, and turned around to leave the kitchen. At the last moment, she stopped and turned around. Giving her mother a large hug and a kiss on the cheek, she whispered, "Thank you."

Jean felt Hermione's embrace even as she left the kitchen. Smiling to herself and finishing her toast, she whispered two words back.

"You're welcome."

* * *

_A/N: You know the drill.. hit that review button! Anyway, I didn't really like this chapter, but I also wanted to update. Still, to me, it doesn't really flow and I might edit it in the future. I'll let you know if I do, though. Anyway, I hope you liked it. And by the way, review. :D_


	14. Interlude

The gate to the Burrow creaked slightly as the wind blew lightly over Ottery St. Catchpole. The soft sounds of the wind paired with the occasional sound of a bird lulled the world to a harmonious sleep.

Ginny Weasley, who was drawn to this type of peace, headed outside after a long morning. Breakfast was a subdued affair with the absence of Arthur, George, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. While Arthur had gone to work to take care of matters involving frequent muggle-baiting, George was locked in his bedroom and refused to come out. His door only stood ajar when he wanted to summon food, and even this was done in the quiet of the night when everyone else was too tired to notice.

Ginny left the familiar confinement's of the Burrow, and headed towards a lone tree hidden by a thicket of bushes. It faced the makeshift Quidditch Pitch the Weasley siblings used to play in; Ginny often sat there as a child to spy on her brothers when they deemed her 'too young to play'. It was here that she learned strategies of scoring and how to smoothly avoid a Bludger. It was here that she sat year after year as she mulled over her brother's leaving for Hogwarts. The secrets held between Ginny and this tree could wrap snugly around all of England.

From a distance, Ginny could spot the tree easily. Its bark was a deep mahogany and felt as smooth as silk whenever she pressed her palms against it. The branches weaved out into the sky with such a unique grace that only added to its perfection. Scenery without solace is meaningless, but this tree provided all the solace Ginny could hope for.

She clumsily sat down cross-legged at the base of it and pulled a small diary out of her pocket. Leather-bound and worn and filled with pages of angst, love, and poetry. It was foolish (judging by her past experiences with a diary) and a little childish, but it satisfied her to quite an extent.

Her hair fell in the fashion of a curtain and shielded her face from the sun, relieving her of an unwanted tan. A quill marked a vacant page and she eagerly began to write, pausing only to dip her writing tool in ink. She scribbled furiously, not bothering to wipe away smears of ink on her fingers.

For a while, she continued to sit there; she emptied herself of her emotions page after page. Naturally, she did not here the familiar voice of a boy calling her name, nor did she take notice of the shadow looming over her.

"Ginny?'

"Hmm," She mumbled, adding a period to the end of a sloppily written sentence.

She heard the crunching of grass as he sat down next to her, but nonetheless continued to write. A few seconds later, it dawned on her.

"Oh!" Her face turned a deep shade of red as she slammed her diary shut, cringing at the thought of the ink smearing.

Harry chuckled. Tenderly, he reached out a hand and used it to tuck her coppery hair behind her ear. Letting his hand linger there longer than necessary, he marveled at how soft it was. He moved his hands away from her face and snaked it around her waist, bringing her closer to him. In a single, fluid movement, his lips came on hers as he brushed them across.

Her diary lay long forgotten as she wrapped her arms around his neck, tracing circles on the nape of it. While writing in her journal made her feel relieved, this type of solace found in Harry made her feel immensely better. Sitting close to him with her knees touching his, she felt _alive_. And as he reluctantly pulled away, she whimpered at the loss of this new found life.

Harry adjusted his glasses, steadying his gaze at her. As emerald green met luscious brown, he sucked in his breath. She was so _divine_, and looking at her instantly returned his thoughts to his Mum. Only a year old when she sacrificed herself for him, his memories of her were hazy. In fact, his assumptions of what she looked like were built on old photos and the descriptions of others. He knew she had dark red hair, and he wondered if it was as lovely as Ginny's. He knew she didn't have brown eyes, as he had inherited his own unique green ones from her. Still, eyes brought out thoughts of his Dad. Did James Potter's heart stop for a moment when he looked straight into Lily's eyes? Did his heart swell with a confetti of exhilarating emotions when he drank in the sight of her?

"What are you thinking about?" She murmured, shying away from his gaze. She resolved to look down in her lap, wringing her fingers.

Harry reached a finger forward and drew up her chin so they were looking directly at each other. He breathed a sigh. "My Mum," He admitted, running a hand tiredly through his hair. "And Dad. The two of them together."

Ginny closed her eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun. It permeated through the shade the tree provided, though she didn't mind in the least bit. "How do you still do it?" She whispered, afraid to raise her voice. She didn't want anything to break this peace.

"Do what?"

"Talk about... think... mention them. How can you remember them when it can hurt you?"

Her question threw him off completely. It was obvious she was indirectly talking about Fred. As his eyes roamed around their seclusion, he found her diary lying on the grass not far from them. Clearly, she was writing about him, but even a whisper of his name could break her to pieces. Harry vowed to change that and fought to deliver a comforting answer.

"It isn't them that hurt you, Ginny. It's the fate they met." He gracefully tugged her into his arms so her face fell against his chest, and began to whisper in her ear. "When I think of them... it usually doesn't involve Voldemort. I'm pretty sure most of the memories are made up, actually. When I think of my Mum and Dad, I picture them like us." He gestured between the two of them with a free hand and resumed whispering. "I see this mischievous glint in my Dad's eyes, and my Mum is playing along and the two of them are so _happy_. I think about what they did and the things they died for..." He unconsciously rubbed his eyes. "It would just be an insult to their memory if I pretended nothing ever happened. Because, well, if that was the case, then I wouldn't be sitting here. I wouldn't be alive and well. And I most certainly wouldn't be doing this."

Craning her neck so that they were eye level, he brought his lips to hers. She beat him to the finish line and began to kiss him soundly with all unhappy thoughts forgotten. It was a moment of pure, uninterrupted lust and Ginny completely savored it. This feeling of translating her emotions into Harry made her feel _so_ content- something a diary could never provide. This particular moment of trust and passion was something Ginny would treasure forever; something she wanted to stamp away in the middle of her mind so it would drive away her sorrow.

As his lips continued to work magic against hers, she pulled him closer. She needed to feel him in every aspect- the tips of his glasses brushing against her cheekbones, his mop of untidy black hair, the beating of his heart as it soundly rose against his chest. The muscles in his back pulsated to the rhythm of their bodies and she felt them underneath her roaming fingertips. She euphorically smiled as her restless hands finally settled on his head as her fingers laced through strand after strand of his hair.

He felt the same things she did and could not help but think they weren't provoked in a protective, brotherly aspect. Through her temper and her personality, she seemed so big and daunting. In his arms, however, Ginny could pass off as small as Crookshanks and as lively as ever. Though his eyes were shut, he skillfully evaded any blind sensations as he memorized every crevice of her. It was a sign of true compassion that he could find her and feel her on so many levels, even without granted sight.

They pulled away from each other simultaneously, breathing heavily for some extremely needed oxygen. As he caught her eye, he lazily grinned at the state of her. Her hair was no longer a curtain that hid her face but a mess of locks looking entirely unkempt. Best of all, she looked happy. Happy wasn't even the proper word to describe the expression in her face; she looked downright _giddy_.

Having already scooted off his lap, she settled into a more comfortable position so she was lying on her backside. Folding her hands on her stomach, she moved her gaze to the swirling clouds above her. Harry joined her and together they lay next to each other, side by side. A carefree mood settled between the two teenagers, _almost_ making the remnants of their previous conversation disappear.

Ginny turned her head so she was facing Harry. She earnestly smiled at him. "You always make things so simple."

"I do?" Harry asked, sounding bemused.

She giggled softly. "Yes Harry, you do. Merlin, you're even modest about _this_."

A blush rose above his shirt collar and onto his face, mingling with his complexion. "Ginny, it was no big deal. It's my job... you know, I have to make you... you should always be happy," He finished lamely.

"Yes, and you're so keen on being the one who makes sure that you're the one who completes the task." She found his hand and looped her fingers through his, intertwining them. "It means the world to me. I hope you know."

Harry cleared his throat, feeling awkwardly pleased with himself.

* * *

Argus Filch limped forward at the becoming shadow with Mrs. Norris at his heels. His brightly lit lantern confirmed that it indeed _was_ Minerva McGonagall walking tiredly at him. The past weeks proved to be very time consuming, making him less agile with his duties than usual. The castle was still standing but some of the damage was beyond repair unless a wand was available. It was something that wounded the old man's pride- filling him with an unusual amount of determination to complete the job.

Since the fateful night of the Battle of Hogwarts, the days became tedious and boring. Corridor after corridor, he faced the same destruction. If not for Mrs. Norris and a few other factors, the desolation would break him completely. It was getting to him though, of course, and on some quiet nights he felt as if he were approaching the brink of insanity. He assumed he was seeing things among the clutter of rubble overtaking Hogwarts and often had to rub his eyes a few times to clear his eyesight. Tonight, however, he was completely sure this wasn't a mirage. It was real and not his feeble mind playing tricks on him. With another confirmation, he would be entirely sure.

Truth be told, he was excited. The prospect of magic always amazed him, whether it was the moving people in a photograph or the rebirth of a flaming phoenix. Frankly, this was the only interesting thing that he came upon in at least two weeks, and he wasn't willing to let it go. So he walked as quickly as his senile legs would allow to share his news with the elderly Headmistress. "Minerva?" He croaked, finding his voice. It had been an entire day since he spoke to anyone (besides the portraits) and the sensation was almost foreign.

"Yes, Argus," She responded, her mouth set in a grim line of concentration. "It is me."

"I need to show you something," He said, trying to hide the enthusiasm in his voice.

She rubbed her temple with her right hand, attempting to contain a sigh. "Can it wait until morning, Argus? It's been a long day."

For the first time in quite a while, he shook his head, defying her. "No," He began, with an authoritative voice. "It cannot. I've never seen anything like it before."

A bit surprised at the tone of the old man, she obliged. "Very well. Show me what this particular 'it' is."

He nodded, before lifting a soiled hand to beckon her. She followed him into the castle where he drew open the doors. She assumed he was taking her to the Great Hall, or perhaps a facet of the castle subject to more destruction than usual. It seemed unexpected entirely, however, when he approached the stairwell leading to the Gryffindor Tower.

"It's just this way," He said gruffly, lifting the lantern for some much needed light.

She began to remove her wand from her pocket, preferring _Lumos_ to a dingy lantern. She resisted the notion, however, as she realized what an affront this would be.

With a few more steps, they reached the portrait leading to the Gryffindor Common Room. The Fat Lady was dozing off in her portrait, snoring slightly. Violet, the Fat Lady's friend, also appeared to be sleeping, along with everyone else in that particular corridor.

"Well, Argus?" Minerva asked, sounding slightly impatient. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary. What is it that you have been itching to show me?"

He looked a little miffed, but kept any snide comments to himself. After all, he had walked past this corridor numerous times and failed to see it only until today. He reached out a scraggly finger, and pointed it towards the right of the Fat Lady.

"_This,_" He said, feeling tremendously proud for being the one who discovered it.

Minerva's eyes followed his finger and they landed on a small portrait. It was no bigger than an average sized textbook, and similar to the other portraits, its inhabitant was sleeping. He had matted blonde hair and a serene complexion. Every few seconds, a quiet, inaudible snore would escape from his nose. A camera was slung around his shoulders, hanging from a strap.

Minerva was shocked, and even nonchalantly rubbed her eyes once or twice to confirm what she was seeing. She quickly straightened herself and regained her composure before speaking to the elderly caretaker.

"Very well, Argus. This certainly cannot wait until the morning. Follow me."

In very quick strides, she made the trek to the Headmaster's office, with Mr. Filch eagerly following her and still carrying his lantern. She made no detours and no movements to stop, even when the sleeping people in the portraits awoke and began to shout complaints at the duo for disturbing their slumber with the steady source of light.

Upon reaching the Headmistress' office, the two of them stepped in with Mrs. Norris sauntering around Argus' feet. After offering Argus a seat, Minerva walked over to the array of portraits adorning the walls. There was an alarming amount of them, given that Hogwarts had regarded anyone who had served the role as Headmaster or Headmistress. Most of them were sleeping, or pretending to do so. They thrived off of news involving the school and the fact that a grimy looking caretaker was sitting in the office helped in no way to lessen their curiosity.

"Albus?" Minerva said, rapping softly on a particular portrait. "Albus!"

The man in the portrait had an abundant amount of snowy white hair and a pair of spectacles posed crookedly on his nose. His eyes opened, revealing two twinkling blue orbs, and he smiled jovially at the Headmistress.

"Minerva, I trust you know that most of us merely _pretend_ to sleep." He broadly gestured with a sweep of his arm at the rest of the portraits; the inhabitants were now performing a dramatic display of yawning and stretching their arms, though they seemed as awake as ever.

Albus' eyes roamed around the room and he continued to speak. "Ah, Argus. What a pleasant surprise! I hope that the job of repairing the castle is not too strenuous for our very helpful caretaker?"

Argus beamed, obviously pleased that someone was praising him. "Not at all, sir. It's not the work that is difficult. Just that damned poltergiest who makes everything much harder."

"Yes, well, that's Peeves for you. It seems that it was just yesterday that he pelted dungbombs on my head..."

The caretaker snarled, clearly not in the mood to discuss the menace. Luckily, Minerva intervened.

"As much as I'd love to discuss Peeves, I'm afraid that's not why we're here."

Albus arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Minerva nodded. "Albus, listen. I was returning to Hogwarts tonight, and Argus approached me. He said he had to show me something."

Here, Mr. Filch interjected. "I was sweeping the corridor near the Gryffindor Common Room when I saw him!"

"Who did you see, Argus?" Asked Albus, leaning forward in his portrait.

"That Gryffindor boy!" He exclaimed. "The one who was petrified five years ago!"

Minerva nodded. "It's true, Albus. Argus took me to the Fat Lady's portrait. A portrait had situated right next to hers and Colin Creevey was sleeping in it."

Albus lifted a hand and began to stroke his beard, muttering to himself. "Curious..."

"What is the meaning of this?" Minerva asked, not bothering to deliver a preamble. "Of course, it branches into a wide threshold of ideas… but I fear that at the same time it is dangerous."

"Minerva, pardon me for saying this, but you are responding in a particularly blind way towards this predicament. Hogwarts is clearly not an ordinary school, nor an ordinary castle. The phenomenon's that have taken place inside these walls bear no comparison to those of Beauxbatons' and Durmstrang's combined."

"What is your theory for _this_ particular phenomenon, then?" Minerva asked.

"Well, it's a theory, of course, as are most of my takes on these strange occurrences. But I shall certainly share it with you and Argus, and even all of the portraits lining the walls." He cleared his throat before continuing. "You know, I'm sure, that when a Headmaster dies, a portrait replaces their spirit, essentially. It is a way of addressing the Headmaster and also a type of homage, if you would call it. This is one of the many actions performed by the magic residing in Hogwarts that personifies it." For a moment or two, he fondly gazed around the room once more, as if marveling at the aspects of it.

"Correspondence is kept with other magical schools and when a magical child is born, compromises are made. This inadvertently sorts the future witch or wizard into a certain school and adds their name to the list of students attending the school in the following years. This particular act is not just a technicality for students, but a magical contract. In other words, this binds them to the castle. No, it is not similar to a betrothal. Nor does it contain a ludicrous explanation about how attending Hogwarts for all seven years is made compulsory upon the student. Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Ms. Granger prove that idea wrong on their account."

At the mention of these three students, the eyes of Severus Snape opened promptly.

If Albus noticed, he made no point of drawing attention to it. Instead, he averted his gaze from that portrait next to him and continued to look at Minerva and Argus, who were waiting expectantly.

"In my opinion, I believe that this type of relationship between the student and the school is incredibly similar to that of the _Headmaster _and the school. What differences are there, really? Both beings are providing a service to the school, though in different terms. For the Headmaster, the duty is to govern the school and regulate over it. For the student, it is to learn all that fills his or her capacity and to further use their talents for the greater good."

"I understand what you are explaining, Albus," Minerva said slowly. "However, how does this pertain to Mr. Creevey?"

"Colin Creevey was not of age, yes?"

Minerva nodded. "Yes, Albus. He was in his sixth year."

"Yet he still returned to fight against the Death Eaters?"

Again, Minerva nodded. "Indeed. He snuck back into the school."

"When he returned to the school, he was filled with motivation to fight. In the process of defending Hogwarts, he died. I have all but directly told you what this means. Can you make a connection?"

Argus shuffled in his seat; he still looked bemused at the vast amount of information thrown at him. Minerva, however, was stroking her chin and appeared as if she was solving a very difficult Arithmancy problem.

"You think that his return in the form of the portrait greatly resembles that of a Headmaster's return?"

"Precisely," Albus said, smiling at the elderly woman. "I believe that this is merely another way of Hogwarts emphasizing the bond between the school and the student. Clearly, this bond was demonstrated through Colin Creevey."

"Do you think there are others?"

"Pardon?" Albus asked.

"Do you think there are others," Minerva repeated. "Other portraits, I mean."

Albus nodded eagerly. "Yes, Minerva. I am quite certain that there are others."

"The Death Eaters were students here as well, Albus."

"I must revert back to theory, Minerva. When the Death Eaters returned to Hogwarts, they had every intention of fighting against those protecting it. Such an act of brutality and assault may have severed the bond completely. However, I cannot be entirely certain. There could be a portrait of Bellatrix Lestrange situated next to that of Sir Cadogan, for all I know. I suggest you attend to your duties as Headmistress and develop a strategy to realize whether or not this is possible."

"Alright, then," Minerva said. She turned towards the other portraits in the room. "Everard, you and Phineas will venture towards the Slytherin Common Room. Alert the other portraits present in that area, and conduct a thorough search of any previous or current Hogwarts student. Also be on the look out for any Death Eaters. If you happen to come across one, make it known to Argus or me immediately."

Everard shuffled off through the portraits as soon as Minerva finished giving directions, followed by a disgruntled-looking Phineas, who murmured under his breath about meeting certain sadistic family members.

As soon as she finished speaking to them, Minerva directed her attention towards the next two portraits. "The same goes for you too, Armando. However, you will be searching near the Ravenclaw Tower. I'd also like for you to ask for Anne's assistance on the way there. Her portrait is near the Stairwell directly outside of this office."

Armando nodded, and also began to move out of the room until he reached the outside of the office.

"Albus, you will conduct the same search at the Gryffindor Tower."

"Certainly, Minerva," Albus said. "Shall I ask for Sir Cadogan's assistance along the way?"

"If you must," She responded. "See to it that he is helpful and does not regulate any tomfoolery whatsoever. And tell him to leave that blasted sword of his in his portrait."

"It would be my pleasure," Albus responded, his eyes twinkling.

Minerva looked at the portrait next to Dumbledore's. A surly looking Snape glared right back at her.

"I would like for you to search near the Astronomy Tower."

He gave a curt nod, and wordlessly walked out of his portrait.

Minerva stepped back a bit, so she was looking at all of the portraits aligned on the back wall of the office.

"All of you will assemble into groups of three or four and either join the others in their search among the Towers, or look for yourselves in other places, like the Great Hall or the Library."

"When will we return?" Called out a squeaky voice from a portrait.

"You will return when you are on the verge of _actually_ sleeping," Minerva responded.

Simultaneously, all of the ex-Headmasters and Headmistresses began to walk out of their portraits.

Argus, who for the past few minutes was remarkably quiet, made his presence known in the room by roughly standing up in his seat. Mrs. Norris, who was also sitting expectantly on the ground next to him, also stood up and purred loudly.

Minerva turned around. "Yes, Argus?"

The caretaker picked up his lantern, which was sitting on the ground next to his feet. "Don't you want me to do something too?" He asked pointedly.

"Yes, but first I'd like to express my gratitude for your astute discovery. I would like for you to return to the Gryffindor Tower and once again locate Colin Creevey's portrait. Attempt to pry it off the wall. If it comes off completely, place it back on the wall. If it gives slightly, yet still remains in place, that means it has a normal Sticking Charm placed on it, making it easy to remove with proper wand work. If it does not budge at all, that means it has a Permanent Sticking Charm placed on it. After you see to this task, return to me and tell me of its current state. Also, I will have a letter waiting for you on my desk. I will need for you to take it to the Owlery and have it mailed to the Creevey's. Be sure to check if any portraits have turned up on the walls."

Argus nodded, slowly processing all of the information. Within a minute, he collected his lantern and proceeded to leave the office with Mrs. Norris tailing him.

Minerva sighed as she walked to her chair, slumping in it. She removed a roll of parchment from her drawer, along with a quill and some ink. It had been a long day and clearly it was going to be a long night. Still, this portrait phenomenon had given her a bit of hope. To her, it was just another reminder that they had won. Good triumphed evil, and though they still lost a hell of a lot of people in the process, _they had won_.

Tucking a strand of hair into her tightly wound bun; she dipped her quill into the bottle of ink and wondered how she could explain all of this in a letter.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Creevey..._


	15. A Hard Day's Night

"That's me and Ron a while after Harry won his first Quidditch game," Hermione explained.

She and Jean were sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, looking through photos in between packing all of their belongings. It would have taken mere moments if Hermione used her wand, but she knew how her parents felt about the use of magic. True, they enjoyed reading about the Wizarding World and seeing an occasional demonstration or two, but at the end of the day they simply preferred things done the Muggle way. Hermione kept photos like these with her constantly, and planned on decorating her room in Britain with them. Jean, who hadn't seen a wizard photograph in a long time, was still trying to understand the concept of moving people in a picture.

"Quidditch is the game with the flying brooms, correct?" Jean asked, looking a little confused.

Hermione nodded. "It was a very big deal for Harry, since he was the youngest player on the team in a century."

Jean continued to examine the photo. The three of them were standing next to each other, with Hermione holding a few books and smiling brightly, looking over at the other two every few seconds. Ron had his arms crossed, beaming with pride at the victory of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. His tie was loose and his clothes seemed a little disheveled, but something about him was positively endearing. Harry looked a little dazed and his broom was slung over his back. He was still in his Quidditch robes and every now and then he would consciously try to comb his hair flat with his fingers though with no success. All of them looked so happy and blissful and _young_, and Jean was touched to the point where she felt that she had taken the photo herself.

"You look very happy, dear," Jean said, after a prolonged silence.

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond to this comment. Was her mother trying to prove a point about how distant Hermione was from the Muggle world, or was she regarding it with happiness?

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked slowly.

"Oh, nothing," Jean said faintly, looking at the photo once more. "It's just that, well, there's more to a photo than meets the eye, you know." She placed it down gingerly in a neat stack, before looking in Hermione's eyes once more. "What I mean, is that you can tell a lot about a person by looking at a photo."

"What can you tell about me?" Hermione asked nervously.

"Well, first of all, clearly you're a bookworm."

Hermione snorted.

"But I also see that you're very comfortable with Harry and Ron. It's the way you're holding your books, honestly. The way they're not glued to your chest, but nonchalantly in one arm. I've always thought that hugging a book like that is too prim. Holding them in a different way shows that you're more open to other ideas that aren't necessarily written down in neat print."

"You can come to all those conclusions just by observing the way I hold my books?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"I _am_ your mother, Hermione," Jean said knowingly with a mock-stern face, though her eyes appeared to smile all on their own.

"Okay, _Mother_. Please, _do_ go on," Hermione said, smiling at her mother's ability to read her so easily.

"The way that you glance at Harry and Ron about twenty times in one minute also accounts for itself. The three of you are obviously close. I can tell that it's a lot stronger than a normal bond of friendship, though."

"How? I mean I understand that we practically behave like brothers and sister..." Hermione trailed off, now squinting at the photo. "Are you pulling my leg, Mum? Or am I just incredibly dense when it comes to my own friendship?"

Jean chuckled. "Harry is famous, yes?"

"Of course, Mum. Harry is more or less a household name."

"From what you've told me, he's been famous from birth, yes?"

"Yeah."

Jean pointed at Harry in the photo. "This boy is incredibly famous and according to you, he's the youngest Quidditch player in a century. I'm sure people, at the time, were practically inching towards him for a photo, or an autograph or just to congratulate him. This type of popularity can be so desirable, Hermione. And yet, he chooses to stand with you and Ron. It explains a great deal about his character, love." She paused for a moment, watching Hermione ingest what she was saying. "Although _your_ description of this is not entirely accurate, Hermione."

"Care to elaborate, Mum?"

Jean grinned cheekily. "You said that the three of you behave like brothers and sister. Between you and Harry, I can see that..."

Hermione blushed. She knew exactly what territory of conversation her mother was heading towards.

"... with Ron, though... I sense something entirely different."

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands.

Jean laughed softly. "Oh come off it, love. I've known for a while now."

Hermione lifted her head from her hands. Her eyes widened. "You have?"

"Of course. Anyone with two eyes and a complete understanding of a young woman's mind could realize that." She chuckled again. "This is probably why your father never figured it out. He's incredibly daft when it comes to these types of things, you know."

With her long, pale fingers, she sifted through the pile of photographs. A particular photo caught her eye; the edges were a little frayed and a few words rested at the top, charmed to sparkle.

"The Yule Ball, 1994," Jean murmured, running a finger over the figure of Hermione. She remembered the letter her daughter had sent home, stating that she was in 'desperate need' of dress robes. The periwinkle folds of fabric suited her nicely and she looked absolutely stunning on the arm of a young man. The only issue with the photo was that Hermione was not on the arm of a certain redheaded boy. In fact, the boy she was standing next to looked nothing like Ronald Weasley.

Hermione shifted on the floor and craned her neck so she could see the photo her mother was completely awestruck by. As she caught a glimpse of it, her stomach churned and the beginnings of a bad memory sprouted inside of her mind.

"I think this is the part where the mother's heart swells with pride," Jean said, nudging her daughter. "You look absolutely marvelous. I only wish..." She trailed off.

Her tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of her mouth. "What?" She asked gently.

"I wish I could have been there with you, tying your hair up a twist, zipping up your dress from the back, and smoothing out your eyebrows with the pad of my thumb," She admitted.

"There's always my wedding," Hermione joked, desperate to lighten the mood.

"Yes," Jean said, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. After a few still moments, she delicately lifted one of her eyelids. "Although I certainly hope your father won't be giving you away to _this_ young man."

Hermione smiled. "I can't say I don't agree."

* * *

Harry briskly walked down a street in Muggle London, darting his head left and right to make sure he wasn't being followed. The charms placed on the Burrow were remarkably helpful when it came to warding off _Daily Prophet_ reporters, but Harry knew he was pushing his luck walking down a sidewalk in broad daylight, Muggle London or not.

Most people were standing in small clusters among the streets with their noses buried in newspapers. Harry caught a few of the same, bold-faced headlines every now and then. Apparently, everyone was too focused on the scandal regarding the President of the United States to notice The Boy Who Lived _Twice_.

He made his way down the sidewalk and turned a corner, stealthily walking into a deserted alley. It was completely empty and a promising looking corner obscured him from view as he Apparated on the spot. Feeling the familiar sensations inhabiting his body, he held his breath and in what seemed like a nanosecond, the alley was gone.

Instead, a bright sun blinded his eyes as he shielded them with his left hand. A wooden picket fence acted as a perimeter and Harry flipped its latch. A gate groaned as he cautiously moved it open. Walking up a crooked, cobblestone path, he took notice to his surroundings. He had never properly examined the home before; the only other time he had seen it was last summer when he was being smuggled into the Burrow.

The house bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Uncle Vernon's and Aunt Petunia's. It was almost _too_ Muggle, with its painted shutters and neatly-trimmed lawn. Realizing that he was lost in reverie, he shook his head a few times before continuing to walk. Before he knew it, he reached the doorstep.

Tentatively, he raised a fist to knock on the door. At the last minute, he took notice of the tiny sphere etched into the wall. He opted to push it with his index finger, and the sound produced from it seemed to bounce all about the house inside. The door was opened far too quickly for Harry's liking. At that particular moment, he chose to contemplate what he would say during this visit. His face was scrunched up in deep thought and comically mirrored a shriveled raisin.

If Andromeda Tonks did not feel so dispirited inside, she would have laughed at the sight of the young man with such a puckered face.

Then again, if the cause for her misery did not exist, she might have never met Harry Potter properly in the first place.

"Harry?" She asked, though it was clearly obvious that it was him. Her mentioning of his name was only used to snap him out of his daze.

"Wha-Andromeda!" Harry exclaimed. "I mean, er... Mrs. Tonks!"

There was no use in denying it- he felt absolutely jittery around this woman. Her similarity in appearance to Bellatrix Lestrange had something to do with it, along with the fact that she had lost her entire family in the course of one year. It was kind of an oxymoron; he had lost his family as well, in the course of one _night_, and it was still hard for him to be around those in mourning. It was like reversing roles in some cynical theatrical adaptation and Harry was completely unsure of how to play his part.

"Andromeda is fine," The woman said, smiling in what she hoped was a reassuring way. "Won't you come in?"

She held the door open for him and he hesitantly walked in through the frame. He stepped in what appeared to be a living room, drenched in all things Muggle related. His eyes gawked as he spotted a radio, which was softly playing an old Muggle song. It sounded like something that Uncle Vernon would call 'complete and utter rubbish.' Come to think of it, the only other time he had heard it was when he was reluctantly dragged along on a trip to a Muggle carnival. He was no older than eight years old and occasionally would show signs of being a wizard- something that disgusted Vernon and Petunia to no end. After accidentally provoking the fireplace in an attempt to become warm, his aunt and uncle decided it was best to keep him within their sight at all times, even if it meant taking him out in public with them.

Songs blared from speakers at the fair, and Harry remembered a particular one with a type of fondness one could only feel towards something inanimate. The lyrics and the sounds loomed through the carnival grounds towards the end of the night, and Vernon regarded it with as much disgust as he did towards Harry.

"Barmy hippie trash," He said, his eyes bugging out. "I will not let my son listen to such garbage!" He furthered his statement by clapping his hands over Dudley's ears, who squirmed uncomfortably and continued to eat his large banger.

Harry, however, was completely smitten by the song, and hummed it softly under his breath on the ride back home. Uncle Vernon strained his ears hard enough to hear the unmistakable melody coming from Harry's mouth, earning the young boy a spanking.

Needless to say, he never bothered to even _think_ of that song again.

Now, though, the predicament was entirely different. And without even knowing what he was doing, Harry began to hum the song again.

"Ted's favorite," Andromeda said, turning the dial on the radio to the right. The sound became more profound and for a few minutes, it was the only noise in the room, aside from Harry's humming. As the chords struck to an end and the last _'And I love her_' was belted out, an entirely new sound startled Harry.

A baby was whimpering in another part of the house, and before Harry could administer what was going on, Andromeda had swiftly attended to the situation at hand. She returned a few minutes later, cradling a baby in her arms. He was nestled in the crook of her am and looked perfectly content. Sucking his thumb and emitting a loud gurgle every now and then, it was easily one of the smallest beings Harry had ever seen.

"This," Andromeda said brightly, "is Teddy."

Harry could sense the tenderness between the woman and her grandson. The dullness in her eyes he had witnessed on her doorstep was now gone and replaced with elation.

Harry decided it was best to step forward and look at Teddy while he was still in Andromeda's arms. As the baby's face came into view, Harry was startled by how much he resembled his mother. He had a heart-shaped face and the same mousy brown hair, although the shade of it resembled his father's more. In a second, though, his hair color changed to black; the same as Harry's. It looked just as messy and unkempt and Teddy was clearly unfazed by it.

"He's a Metamorphagus," Andromeda said proudly. "He's been doing it since the day he was born. I'm sure that when he's a little older, he'll have complete control over his abilities. For right now, though, his hair will change color to match the person he sees."

Harry nodded and continued to look at the baby. Out of instinct, he held out his finger and Teddy grabbed it immediately. He had a surprisingly strong grip. When he finally did let go of Harry's finger, he reached out for his glasses instead.

"Hey!" Harry said, laughing at the bemused baby.

Teddy attempted to put the glasses on himself, but he ended up draping them on top of his tummy. He continued to gurgle and Andromeda handed Harry his glasses back discreetly. She led them towards a cream-colored sofa and beckoned for Harry for sit.

"Would you like to hold him?" Andromeda inquired, still smiling at the baby.

"Er- yeah, sure." He held out his arms and Andromeda swiftly maneuvered Teddy into them.

"Careful, now," Andromeda murmured. "And make sure you hold his head with your hand; it's important that you support it."

He paid careful attention to her instructions and mimicked her technique. Teddy felt warm and soft in his hands; he was so transfixed by the infant that he didn't notice Andromeda summoning a tea tray and a bassinet. Andromeda gently extracted Teddy from his arms and snugly placed him in the infant bed.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked politely, already filling a cup with the warm liquid. She placed it on a saucer and handed it to him. "Help yourself to cream and sugar."

He obliged and occupied himself by drinking his tea. It was incredibly hot, so much that it fogged his glasses as he brought the cup closer to his face to inhale.

Andromeda chuckled. It startled Harry that she was amused at his expense; he had expected her to remain dreary and cold throughout the entire visit.

"If you wanted to smell it, you were supposed to waft it, dear." She smiled again and took a sip of her own tea. "My goodness, don't they teach you this in Potions?"

"That might explain why I didn't get an Outstanding in that class," Harry responded, playing along with her joke. Placing his teacup back on the tray, he cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief Andromeda wordlessly handed to him. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the gurgles made by Teddy, the _clink_ of a teacup hitting its saucer, and the squeaky sounds made as Harry defogged the spectacles sitting on his lap. Andromeda broke the comfortable silence.

"It was nice of you to come here," She said calmly.

Harry was taken aback. He was fully aware that it was his duty to visit Andromeda and Teddy- he _was_ the boy's godfather, after all.

"Of course I would visit the two of you," He finally answered. "I want to be there for Teddy, Andromeda. It's my responsibility."

She smiled, though the happiness etched on her lips didn't quite reach her face. "It's very easy to shirk responsibility, Harry." Andromeda looked at Teddy for a few moments, lying in such a content manner in his bed, before returning her gaze to Harry once more.

"Taking care of Teddy, nurturing him and making sure he's healthy, that's not a problem for me. I managed to do it with Dora and I will certainly manage with him." She cleared her throat. "You have to understand, though, that these are not the dynamics of raising a child." She broadly gestured towards Teddy with her hand, while still looking at Harry. "This is Teddy today. But what about Teddy tomorrow, or the next week, or the next year?"

Andromeda brought both of her hands in her lap, folding them neatly. "When Dora gave birth to Teddy, one of the very first things Remus did was Apparate to Shell Cottage. Apparently, it was a tradition among the Marauders to name Godfathers the moment a child was born." She smiled wanly. "I was a little skeptical when Remus named _you_ Godfather, Harry. At the time, I did not believe for it to be the wisest decision. We were in the middle of war; who's to say who would die tomorrow or the week after?"

"I regret ever judging you in that way, Harry. You're young, yes, but you have what Teddy needs. As he grows older, naturally, he'll have a thirst for knowledge about his parents. He may be angry with them... maybe even angry at _me_ for letting them go. But he needs to know who his parents are. It's the least we can do for him; to let him know that they did not die in vain."

Harry took a moment to understand all of Andromeda's words. As he contemplated, he chose to look at Teddy. His hair would change colors every few minutes. The baby looked so innocent, snuggled comfortably in his bassinet. It was hard to believe that someone so pure could be assigned to such a merciless fate. Perhaps it was the calm look on Teddy's face, or the way his tiny chest would rise and fall with every breath, but Harry vowed right then and there to give Harry the childhood he deserved.

"Teddy and I, we're very similar," Harry said. "Both orphans, lost both of our parents to the same cause..." He trailed off, unable to continue. Swallowing a few times, he began to speak again. "I don't want him to grow up like I did. There were a lot of things I wanted to know, as I got older. For a while, it was Sirius and Remus giving me answers. I want to do the same for him. I want to be there."

Andromeda nodded gratefully. "That's all I ask, Harry."

* * *

_A/N: I had a lot of difficulty writing this chapter, especially with the second half. I thought about what to do for Chapter 15, and I decided that I wanted to emphasize Harry and Teddy's relationship. It's going to be pretty important, along with some other things, later_.

_Please review. It will make me oh so happy_. :)


	16. Ooh La

The Headmistress' Office looked dark and cold aside from the few rays of sunshine penetrating through the windows. The wide slants of light revealed a desk littered with parchment and an elderly looking woman's gaunt face. The portraits behind her all appeared to be snoozing (for real, _this_ time), as the last few days proved to be tiring with news and discoveries.

Only one portrait seemed wide awake amongst the sleepy faces. He looked pleasant and content, with his lily white hands perched beneath his chin. His lips were curved in what appeared to be a half-smile. His eyes were sparkling in a particularly bright manner, resembling a ray of sunlight hitting the focal point of an ocean.

He glanced towards his left, hoping to find some company in the dark-haired wizard next to him. He too appeared to be content, but the only difference was that he was sleeping. His posture was slightly slumped and the expression roughly chiseled into his features mollified the harsh opinions everyone construed about him.

"The Weasley's are today," Minerva said in a tired voice, shuffling her fingers through a few rolls of parchment. She didn't bother to lift her head up; it was obvious to whom she was speaking to. "If anyone deserves this, it's them."

At this point, she levitated her chair so it sat behind a corner of the large table. Gracefully setting herself in it, she rearranged her papers before continuing to work. In her new position, she had a fulfilling view of Dumbledore.

He smiled appreciatively at her gesture, but chose to remain silent for a few minutes to consider her comment. Finally, he spoke.

"But Minerva, what is it that they have won?"

Slowly, she lifted her head and observed him carefully. "Albus, what kind of a question is that?"

"I've asked questions of a higher nature of absurdity, Minerva."

Minerva let out a low snort. It was something she rarely did, being the woman she was. The way that Albus countered her comments, though, often let her slip her guard.

"Yes, Albus, you most certainly have," She responded smoothly, scribbling something neatly at the top of a piece of frayed looking parchment. "To me, though, you are questioning something great. Don't you consider this a triumph?"

"I do," He said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "However, triumphs are not always what they appear to be."

"I agree, Albus. However, some of us choose to see it only in one particular light. We are too tired to consider the other facets."

"I will say no more, then," He said gently, not wishing to stress her. "Only one more thing on my behalf, Minerva. I do hope that you know and understand the essence of a portrait."

He peered at her, his eyes hovering above the tops of his spectacles. His gaze was almost stern, making Minerva feel like she was being demoted to a small, naïve child.

"Yes," She finally said, her voice stiff. "I am well aware of the, as you refer to it, 'essence of a portrait.'"

"Good," He said, smoothing out his beard with one of his hands. "As I promised, I will leave you to your work. However, I suggest that you stall the business you are attending to for another hour of the day. If this appointment is anything like the previous ones, then they will be here sooner than you presume."

* * *

Ron Weasley signed the end of his letter with a flourish and handed it to the amiable looking owl, Nougat, on his windowsill. Her feathers were a deep brown, instantly reminding Ron of Hermione's eyes as it gracefully flew through his window. The owl was from Kingsley, who, staying true to his word provided an owl so that the Weasley's and Hermione could keep in touch for the next few weeks.

"Take this to Hermione, yeah?" He said absent-mindedly, attaching the letter to the owl's right leg. Nougat flew off almost immediately, though Ron did not take the time to notice. In another corner of the room, Pigwidgeon hooted indignantly.

Ron turned around to see his ruffled looking owl, flapping his wings now and then in a pathetic manner. Clearly, he wanted to be the one to deliver the letter. Ron could sympathize; he'd take on any excuse to leave the house as well.

"Sorry, Pig," He muttered, getting up to fetch his cloak from his closet. "But I think the both of us know that you'd probably end up head-first in the Loch Ness before making it to Australia."

Pigwidgeon continued to hoot, fluttering about in small circles around the room. Ron placed his traveling cloak on, before bending down to tie the laces on his trainers.

Hoping that Nougat would be back with a response in the next day or two, he shuffled his fingers through his hair. The fringe of flaming red was approaching his eyebrows and was in desperate need of cutting. Then again, the thought of Hermione fingering his locks with tenderness and care instantly made him dismiss the idea. In fact, the thought of Hermione doing anything remotely endearing to him gave him a flurry of emotions and sent him spiraling into a daydream.

"Ron! We're going to be late!"

Ron sighed. His daydream, apparently, was over.

"I'm coming!" He bellowed, not bothering to see who exactly was summoning him. Buttoning his cloak, he clambered down the stairs and walked towards the fireplace where the rest of his family currently stood.

Bill was there, along with Fleur. The two of them were holding hands, and every few seconds they would nudge each other and communicate silently. Charlie stood off to the side, looking morose with his hands shoved into the pockets of his heavy looking cloak. Percy stood closest to the fireplace with an eager look on his face, though it was mingled with an expression of pain and sadness. George stood farthest from everyone else, slumped against the back of an armchair, refusing to look up. His hair looked scruffy and unkempt and Ron was sure that his face was no better. Like Bill and Fleur, Harry and Ginny stood side by side holding hands as well.

A pang of an emotion Ron could not decipher unraveled through his insides as he caught side of their intertwined fingers. He was certain that it wasn't over protectiveness an older brother would have. To him, it seemed more like jealousy, considering that he wanted to engage Hermione desperately in the same way Harry was to Ginny.

His thoughts were cut short as his mother began to distribute Floo Powder to Bill and Fleur. She looked frazzled, though on her part she did the best to look presentable. Every few seconds or so, she would self-consciously smooth out her hair. Arthur stood besides her, looking a bit more collected, with his arm linked casually with her own.

"Bill, we'll be arriving through Minerva's Floo," She explained, thrusting the pot of Floo Powder towards him. "Just say, 'Professor McGonagall's Office.' Do it quickly, please. Her Floo will be shut off in about five minutes or so."

He nodded, and beckoned for Fleur to come into the fireplace with him before dropping the Floo Powder into the hearth. He dispassionately said, "Professor McGonagall's Office" before disappearing into the array of green flames.

One by one, each member of the Weasley family disappeared. Charlie was next, followed by Percy, George, Ron, Harry and Ginny. Arthur and Molly surveyed the rest of their family and friends as they emptied out of The Burrow. When Ginny's vibrant head of hair and Harry's messy locks could no longer be seen, Arthur turned to Molly.

"Ready to go, Molly?" He asked, peering at her intently.

"Well, with the Floo shutting off in a few minutes or so..." She responded rather dryly, "... I'm afraid I don't have much of a choice."

He grasped her hand tightly, before leading the two of them into the hearth. "Don't every say that, Molly," Arthur said, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder. "You will _always_ have a choice."

--

"Sometimes I wonder if he's the one," Hermione murmured. She was comfortably curled up in an armchair; her head rested against one arm of the chair while her legs dangled off another. A worn copy of _A Summer to Die _from the library lay open-faced across her chest and her small, pale fingers rested upon the cover.

Jean sat not far away from her on another couch with her legs crossed at the ankles. The home furnishing magazine she was previously reading so carefully now lay forgotten on the coffee table. On instinct, she waited for her daughter to continue speaking. When Hermione continued to remain silent, clearly waiting for a response, she decided to take the matter into her own hands.

"Why would you strain your mind and think about _that_, dear?"

Hermione looked up, now severely interested. "What do you mean? I mean, surely you've thought about it yourself. Haven't you ever had any doubts?"

Jean looked a little hesitant, before answering, "Never."

"_Never?!_" Hermione echoed rather dumbly.

Jean shrugged nonchalantly. "Why worry about something bliss? Why question something when the cards are in your favor all along? It's unhealthy, that's what it is."

Hermione fumbled with her hands, feeling asinine. Her mouth opened and closed a few times; clearly she was at a loss for words.

"It's not that I _doubt_ that I love him, or anything," She finally spoke in a small voice. "I know I do. I've known for a long time." Her voice now sounded firmer and stronger. "But I can't help but think what else- _who_ else is out there."

"Well," Jean said rather pointedly, "I'm afraid that's a subtle way of doubting, Hermione. You've heard the saying '_Love is blind'_, of course. In my opinion, it's not the only thing that's blind. It also renders the particular person under the spell, so to speak, blind. They become painfully unaware of every thing else, unless they strain their eyesight hard enough." She gave her daughter another curious look before continuing to speak. "What makes you think that someone else is out there?"

"I don't know," Hermione said rather helplessly. "I think it's because of how different we are. Different interests, different personalities..."

"All blinded by common goals and common feelings," Jean interjected. "My god, Hermione. It isn't a sin to have slightly different ideas and fixations. You know very well that your emotions of Ron would drastically change if he _himself_ did."

"We always bicker though," Hermione pointed out. "It's just... so unusual how we're always at each other's throats."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?" Jean asked. "I mean, if that _really_ was the case, you two certainly wouldn't have the type of bond you currently share." Her gaze softened a bit at the look of seriousness on her daughter's face. "Hermione, I'm going to explain something to you. You may not agree, but hopefully it will clear things up."

Hermione nodded eagerly, sitting up to get a better look at her mother. Her attention was completely undivided.

Jean cleared her throat before speaking. "In some ways, you're right." She noticed the dejection in Hermione's features, but continued to speak. "In other ways, however, you are thinking very credulously. You say that there may be someone else out in the world waiting for you, and I can neither confirm nor deny it. Who's to say, though, that there isn't more than one person waiting for you? In fact, there could very well be one person in each and every single country in the world, waiting to kindle chemistry. Yet, you have found none of these people. But you _have_ found someone so painstakingly similar, that it causes you to doubt." She paused for a moment and used the time to observe Hermione. Currently, she looked overwhelmed, and, if it was possible, even more confused.

"I sincerely hope I haven't confused you even more," Jean said, chuckling at the bewildered expression Hermione was housing. "Stars, I never was good at explaining things. Shall I wrap this little lecture up, then?"

"Please," Hermione muttered, sounding tired.

"Basically, Hermione, this is the point I've been trying to make. Ron may not be _the_ one, but he certainly is one of them. If you truly believe that the two of you are not meant to be, that your fate is not set in stone, then so be it. However, think of it this way. Out of all the 'ones' out there, you found him. Out of all the 'ones' you could have harbored feelings for, you sealed your fate and settled for him. You need to trust your judgment more, dear. It will ultimately be the last thing you will rely on; it is the instinct that guides you through life. As for the matters regarding your differences, all I can say is that no romance is perfect. Literature _and_ reality have done a superb job of proving that."

"You're right," Hermione said softly, tracing the places on her hand where Ron had firmly grasped with his own. Out of the blue, a type of realization hit her very hard and so sudden. Still, in a matter of moments, she became meticulously aware of what Ron was doing to her, whether he knew it or not. The way she would, unbeknownst to herself, locate the places where his touch once was and caress it with a type of tenderness she herself could not decipher. The way a special spot was reserved for him in her mind, and how she virtually visited that spot often- sometimes several times a day. The way he subtly arrived into the streams of her dreams and the way he sent her heart beating at an alarming rate.

"You're right," She repeated, though her voice was firm and her tone revealed a type of determination.

Her mother merely nodded. Her mouth curled into a smile; a kind of smile that was reserved for when she was triumphant in explaining yet another falsehood of a fabrication to her daughter.

As the clock on the wall continued to hum and the day continued to shy away, mother and daughter resumed reading. Jean found an interesting article on knitting patterns, while Hermione's perspective continued to change drastically with Meg's perils about her older sister. It was a summer to die in this character's eyes, but a summer to love in her own.

Through the shuffle of pages being turned and the straight, black print her eyes were accustomed to, Hermione realized something. Perhaps it lay content in her heart all along, waiting to be discovered and unleashed. It kept sheltered away though, restraining itself, only making its way out of the darkness when the time was right.

To bluntly put it, she was in love. It was not the type of love, however, that would fade away like a dying candle. It was not sketchy or filled with doubt; nor was it characterized by uncertainty. Instead, it was pure and celestial and _real_. It was the magic Dumbledore was so fond of and right until the very end, he was correct. It was the greatest power of all, and currently, it inhabited every crevice of Hermione Granger's body.

There was no turning back.

* * *

_A/N: I'm sure that all of you were expecting something about Fred Weasley's portrait- I'm sorry that I was so vague about it in this chapter. The least I can say is that it's complicated; there are times where I regret introducing the idea, and times when I wonder how I'm going to write about it when it comes to the Weasley's. It's been hard, and after many attempted drafts, I decided to put the idea to rest- until the next chapter, at least._

_As for the Hermione/Jean conversation, I have a feeling it might draw some confusion. For the record, I know that Hermione has always loved Ron. It wouldn't be right if she didn't. However, I've always thought of their relationship as juvenille in the series. They danced around each other for a long time- if they're feelings were incredibly strong, they probably would have shouted it to the heavens ages ago._

_Let's face it, they're both inexperienced when it comes to relationships. I thought that by introducing this idea of realizations, so many unsaid things would be cleared up- for everyone._

_I hope you like this chapter- I promise Fred Weasley will make an appearance!_

_While you're at it, you might want to hit that Submit Review button too. _ :)

--


	17. You Only Live Once

_2 June 1997_

_Dear Hermione,_

_First of all, this owl's name is Nougat. I reckon she's one of the sweetest ones I've ever met. She reminds me of you a lot, actually. I think it's her feathers- they're like a warm, chocolate brown color, kind of like your eyes. Oh, and she has a tendency to hoot every time I swear._

_Don't worry, though- I'm not going to leave you for an owl or anything. Although that would be quite a sight..._

_As you can see, my attempts at trying to be humorous aren't too great. Maybe it's because I feel like a sorry excuse for a Dementor is looming over my head. Oh, and the fact that you're about a million miles away from me may have something to do with it. This is one of those times I wish Australia was five minutes away from the Burrow. Then again, if things were that easy, You-Know-Who (wait, why am I saying You-Know-Who?! The git is dead!) might have never existed. Mum would never make me maroon jumpers on Christmas, and Fred would probably be taking the mickey out of me, chortling at the fact that I'm writing a letter to you._

_I'm coming to terms with it. Mind you, I'm not completely over it, but at least I'm a better sight than George. You should see him. Wait, scratch that. You don't want to see him. He looks like... like a ghost of his former self. It's weird, because around the twins everything is so lighthearted. Things are different now, though. I have a feeling that no one dares to show a sign of happiness as long as George is looking glum._

_Ginny seems fine, though. Of course, it's obvious that the cause for her sudden change of mood is Harry. I don't know what they do together (and I definitely don't want to know!), but its working, apparently. Just as long as he doesn't hurt her, I'm fine with it. I don't care if he's my best mate and practically my brother; I'm not exactly going to be frolicking through the flowers if he makes her anywhere near as sad as George._

_I think I'm going mad without you, Hermione. It's silly, I know. I've survived ten years without you. I even spent Christmas during our sixth year without you. That doesn't change the fact that I miss you like hell. I have to admit, I'm a little upset about it. Not at you, of course; I may be a prat, but I'm definitely not blaming you for the situation involving your parents. It's just that... well, we're finally together but we can't exactly be together. You know what I mean? There are times when I really just want to Apparate into your living room, but I don't think that'd sit too well with your parents (ha ha). Still, the last thing I want to do is abandon my family during a time like this... _

_To tell you the truth, I don't really want to talk (or write, in this case) about them, at least not right now. All I want to do is focus on you and picture how you get all flustered when you're angry with me. Merlin, it drives me crazy. Actually, now that I'm revealing all my embarrassing thoughts, I guess it'd be the perfect time to mention that I really want to snog you senseless. Seriously, there are times when I completely space out just thinking about it and Harry has to wave his hand in front of my face for a good minute before I come to my senses. It's not like I want to do it just for the thrill of kissing you, but for the reminder that I'm with you. I swear, sometimes I think it's the only thing that's keeping me alive, or at least sane._

_I think this is the longest letter I have written to you. Actually, it may just be the most meaningful. I mean, after all, my other letters usually consist of, 'Hermione, Mum wants you to come to the Burrow for the holidays, Ron' which isn't exactly the most enlightening thing you've ever read. And knowing you and your unhealthy obsession of books, I'm completely sure. Then again, if you had kissed me sooner, instead of in the middle of a Battle, I may have been sending you letters like this left and right. _

_I'm just kidding (or am I?), of course. Mainly because I want to prevent my body parts from being brutally removed when you get back. When are you getting back exactly, anyway? It's not like I'm running towards a calendar every few minutes, but I'm still waiting for you. _

_Anyway, I have to go. McGonagall sent a letter to Mum and Dad earlier today. She said she wants us to come to Hogwarts (even Fleur and Harry) through the Floo Network. I reckon it's important; why else would she want the whole family in her Office? I just hope it's not an Order of the Phoenix meeting. Mind you, I still want to be an Auror when I'm older, but I'd like to take things slow for a while. Write me back when you get a chance (basically, as soon as you most possibly can) and make sure to give Nougat something to nibble on. Merlin knows she'll probably be dropping dead the minute she finds your home._

_Love,_

_Ron_

* * *

Harry always reserved a bit of fondness for Hogwarts. Aside from the Burrow, it was the only place he had ever felt at ease. Essentially, it was his home, and he couldn't imagine his bedroom without a Gryffindor red four poster with matching curtains. When he, along with the rest of the Weasley's, walked out of Professor McGonagall's Office and into a familiar corridor, he felt startled at the changes that slowly were beginning to inhabit the castle.

For starters, there were pieces of rubble to sidestep in some places, and all the portraits seemed to be permanently distressed. As he glanced up and around, taking in the vaulted ceilings and the stone walls, he noticed large cracks etched into the walls. A particularly nasty one ran from the top of the wall all the way to the decorative trimmings at the bottom. It neatly sliced through the wall itself and branched off into other directions, giving the impression of a man with a scarred face.

Instinctively, Harry lifted his own hand to trace the lightning bolt on his own forehead.

Ron and Ginny both noticed this small, yet subtle action, and nonchalantly turned their heads to interrogate him. "Is something wrong, mate?" Ron asked, his voice laced with concern. His soft whisper nearly went unheard with Ginny's own frantic voice.

"Is your scar hurting?"

He shook his head no; realizing a split second later that this was not enough to convince them, he reassured them in a hoarse whisper.

"Just a habit I guess," He mumbled, straightening his glasses that had gone slightly askew.

Before they could question him any further, Filch stumbled out of the shadows with Mrs. Norris a short distance behind them. He was carrying a large broom in one hand and a bucket filled with cleaning supplies in the other.

"Oh," He said indifferently, looking the large group up and down. "It's you lot."

"Yes," Arthur said, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stopped walking as soon as he caught sight of the elderly caretaker and the rest of the family followed suit. "We're here to see Minerva."

"Of course you are," Filch murmured. "Like the rest of them, no doubt." He lifted a grimy hand to move a few strands of hair out of his face. He was apparently finished speaking with them, as he turned his head towards Mrs. Norris, his mouth forming into a sort of leer. "I should be given an award for Special Services to the School Mrs. Norris, eh?"

The cat purred loudly in response, as if agreeing with him. She circled Filch a few times, her tail swishing in the air like a flower being blown away by a strong breeze.

"He's gone a bit barmy, hasn't he?" Harry whispered softly at Ron, exchanging his gaze between Filch and Ron every few minutes.

Ron snorted. "He was barmy from the _start_ mate," He responded, chuckling. The remark did not go unheard by Molly, who turned around and gave Ron a sharp look, effectively shutting him up.

Directing his attention towards the Weasley's and Harry, Filch spoke once more. "I reckon she's gonna tell you about the portraits."

"What portraits?" Molly asked bemusedly.

Filch, about to answer, was momentarily subdued when Mrs. Norris meowed loudly. She ran away swiftly, presumably after something situated on the opposite corridor.

"Damn poltergeist!" Filch roared, leaving the group without a second family. He stalked after Mrs. Norris, murmuring incoherently under his breath.

"What on Earth was that all about, Arthur?" Molly asked softly, clinging to her handbag tightly. "What did he mean by portraits?"

"I don't think he deserves an award for Special Services to the School," Percy muttered darkly, liberally looking around the corridor with distaste. "At least, if _this_ is the result of his duties."

"Honestly, Percy," Molly said in a reprimanding tone, turning to face her son. "Aside from Minerva and the Order members, who incidentally are not around here often, I'm sure he's doing his job all by himself."

"Why aren't any of us helping?" Charlie asked quietly. It was one of the few things he'd said all day; his voice sounded unnatural and raw in the back of his throat to him. "Can't I come to the school, Mum? I don't plan on returning to Romania until September."

"You're taking that long of a break?" Arthur asked, trying to hide the astonishment from his voice. Charlie, who was very attached to the dragons and the atmosphere of Romania, rarely visited the Burrow. The only exceptions were Christmas (and even this varied from year to year), birthdays, or a family emergency.

Ron being on the run with Harry and Hermione, a Battle raging inside Hogwarts' grounds, and Fred dying were all more or less equal to a family emergency.

"Well, yeah," Charlie said, averting his gaze from the scrutinizing looks everyone was giving him. "With the situation here and all... it just doesn't seem appropriate to return to Romania. I'll at least be able to see off Ginny at the train for her seventh year." He shyly looked at his baby sister and gave her an impulsive grin..

"About time, you git," She said lightheartedly, warmly returning his smile.

* * *

Ron was shocked. The reason why they had been summoned to Hogwarts was resting in a dimly lit hallway and dozing off. He was identical to a young man sitting not too far away from him. He was an aura; an imprint. He was a portrait and he was Fred Weasley.

Had he been looking around the room instead of being consumed with his own thoughts, he would have seen the disbelief blatantly overcoming everyone's features, except Minerva's. Apparently, the shock had worn off for her. She had come across several portraits since Filch had discovered the first one. The shock wore off, but the look of glee on immediate family members did not.

Of course, Hermione might have also shared the same reaction with Minerva. Ron instinctively grinned mirthfully at the thought of her reading it in some heavy looking textbook, no doubt.

_"Oh, Ronald. _Of course_ portraits can sprout up around the castle and reflect human-like tendencies. It's mentioned in Hogwarts: A History, you know. On page 702, line 77."_

The only problem was that Hermione _wasn't_ here, making him a whole lot more confused. Bits and pieces of McGonagall's explanation for this 'phenomenon' kept echoing through his head like a broken Muggle record, giving him a headache.

_"Fred Weasley's portrait was found near the Hufflepuff Dormitories, by a large painting of fruit. He appeared to be sleeping with several Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products looming in the background of his portrait. A trick wand had been carefully placed behind his ear."_

_"According to Lorelei Peakes, expert on Magical Objects, the portrait of your son is very similar to that of a Headmaster's portrait. His aura has been left behind on the grounds of the school, having died there in combat in the process of defending it. An advanced charm has been placed on it, thus awakening it. Because this portrait originated from Hogwarts, Fred will have the ability to travel among the portraits in the castle, even if he is no longer present on the grounds."_

_"Although this portrait can speak, walk, and essentially think, it is merely an imprint of his soul. It is possible to carry conversations with a portrait, but by no means is it similar to maintaining a relationship with a living human. Portraits do not have very broad personalities- in fact, most experts in this field of magic say that they tend to repeat 'catch phrases', things that they often said while alive."_

_"There is no Permanent Sticking Charm on this portrait, meaning that you may place it in a desired location. Arrangements can be made to have it taken to the place of your choice. It is possible to create another portrait, essentially a twin of the one you already have. It'd be a requirement, though, to contact an artisan who specializes in portraits. The creation of an artificial, twin portrait is difficult, however. It can take up to several months if the artisan is precise and careful with his or her work."_

She had left the Office a few minutes ago, however, partly to relieve Filch of a difficult chore involving a gaping hole in one of the walls, opposite the Potions' classroom. Also, she wanted to give the family a chance to digest the information privately, knowing very well that while this was a good bit of news in quite a while, it was also inadvertently a reminder of death.

It was ironic, essentially.

Currently, she was heading towards the Dungeons, hoping that this portion of the castle wasn't already flooded with remnants of the Black Lake. The last thing she needed was another reason for Filch to complain and insist on finishing the task alone. Caretaker pride, he could call it, but she found it absolutely foolish. Needless to say, with her presence no longer in the Office, she missed a great part of a Weasley discussion slowly coming to the surface.

* * *

"Well," Arthur said, standing up from the wooden chair he was sitting in mere moments ago. Minerva had graciously conjured a lot of them, knowing that none of them would be standing when things were explained. "This is an interesting development, eh?"

Much to the surprise of everyone, George snorted. "Well, I suppose it's probably the most absurd thing that's ever happened to us. Unless you want to count Ickle Ronniekins _finally_ getting Hermione."

Bill and Charlie chuckled jovially, while Ron scowled. Secretly, though, he was pleased. This was one of the first jokes George had cracked in a month. He was _definitely_ looking forward to more, even if it meant being at the expense of them.

"You have no right to mercilessly tease your brother like that, George!" Molly scolded. Her chastisement proved to be ineffective, though, as a smile she was trying to hide defeated her will. Impulsively, the corners of her lips twitched and they rose on their own accord. It was the first time she had smiled genuinely in a while.

"I'm not _teasing_ Ronnie, Mum," George replied saucily. "I'm merely stating the obvious. You know, telling the truth. Haven't you always emphasized the importance of honesty to your sons?" He smiled sweetly at her and rose his euphoric eyes to meet hers, greatly resembling a mischievous little boy.

"_Sons?_ What am I, the garden gnome you and Fred taught swear words to?" Ginny asked incredulously.

"Well, you had to learn them from _somewhere_..."

"As much as I'd like to discuss Ginny's colorful vocabulary," Bill interjected smoothly, "I'd much rather talk about these, as Dad calls them, 'developments.'"

Fleur nodded, agreeing with her husband, while Molly voiced her approval of the idea.

"Bill's right," Molly said, a type of determination in her voice the other Weasley's hadn't heard in quite a while. "I know it's not necessarily the same..." She trailed off, unable to continue. Frustrated and even joyful tears threatened to crawl out of her eyes.

Arthur, sensing his wife's discomfort, grasped her hand in his own. Stroking the smooth, soft skin, he gave her a reassuring smile. "Your mother's right," He continued for her. "It's very far from the same. It's the best we've got, though."

A lull in the conversation seemed to unfold and everyone became unnaturally quiet as Arthur uttered this last statement. It was true, of course, that this was better than anything they could have wished for. In fact, the only thing that would make them more grateful would be for Fred to be alive and well. Fred in portrait form was clearly one of the next best things.

"Where will we put the portrait?" Ron asked quietly, ending the prolonged silence.

A ripple of murmurs ran threw the room. Of course, this question had not yet crossed the minds of anyone. Choosing a proper place would be tedious; it'd have to be somewhere that would satisfy everyone and bring a sense of peace to the Weasley's. While Bill and Charlie were perfectly fine by any location chosen by the rest of the family and Percy, Ron, and Ginny were too elated about the portrait itself, George was the child that Molly and Arthur had to take into consideration.

Husband and wife surreptitiously shared a glance, as if communicating their concerns silently. However, before they could come to some sort of silent conclusion, George spoke up again, shocking everyone for the second time in the process.

"How about in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?" He asked cautiously, as if expecting a negative reaction. "It'd be nice to have some company in the shop when I reopen it in the next few weeks."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Ginny said earnestly, her warm brown eyes dancing animatedly. "We can even charm a plaque too- to spell out his name and what not."

"We can always whip up that second portrait," Arthur pointed out. "It can hang in the Burrow if that's fine with everyone else."

Everyone nodded in agreement and the room was once again filled with excited voices, though much louder than the previous, hushed murmurs. Fleur was excitedly jabbering in French to Bill, who, judging by the looks of his face, was not understand a good deal of her words. However, the goofy grin currently inhabiting his face bluntly told everyone that he did not seem care in the least bit; he was far too happy with the sudden turn of events.

Charlie and Percy, who always maintained a reserved relationship, managed to find something suitable to talk about. Percy began to pompously recall the broomstick deficiency of a custom made _Nimbus _distributed to the Falmouth Falcons and how the Department of Magical Games and Sports had to intervene. Charlie passionately responded with a descriptive analysis of his own _Nimbus_ which he had bought not too long ago at a moderate price.

And while Molly and Arthur stayed quiet, yet open with each other and Harry and Ginny jokingly continued Ron about Hermione, only George remained silent.

It was an odd month for him, from the moment he learned his brother was dead. Seeing his cold face, a ghost of a smile still haunting his features, he felt as if he had been pushed head first into the icy cold characteristics of reality. Spiraling into a depression only time (and Fred) could fix, he had precariously sunk into the depths of a longing completely unknown to him. Even while his family was on the run, and Ron was helping Harry and Hermione perform some unspeakable task Dumbledore had bestowed upon the trio, there was still something to look forward to. Perhaps it was the presence of his twin brother or the new, innovative ideas he and Fred had managed to come up with for their joke shop.

It was hard getting up out of bed everyday. It was hard to swallow another morsel of food. It was hard to _live_. How does one even manage to live when his other half is missing? To George, it resembled walking on his hands for the rest of his life or suddenly adapting to the life of an old fashioned Muggle. Similar, yet much, much worse.

Silently, he slipped out of the room. He was well aware of the fact that his mum would throw a fit later and the rest of the family would be concerned. They couldn't blame him, though. He was excited at the prospects of this new portrait. Discussing it simply brought it to life even more. But that was exactly the problem. He was tired of _discussing_ it. He wanted to see it with his very own eyes. He wanted to feel it, confirm that it would not slip away through his fingers and into the streams of his dreams with the mere contact of his fingertips.

And so he made the impulsive decision to barrel down the corridor, slowly picking up his pace. His legs began to move faster, temporarily foreign to this new sensation. After all, it had been a chore to get out of bed, let alone sprint down a hallway with determination. His legs continued to move on their own, while his arms flailed wildly at his sides. The ginger tips of his hair fell into his eyes and his vision was obscured, but he didn't care. That was far from his concerns.

Before he knew it, he was there. A large painting of fruit currently resided on the wall in front of him. Through careful observation, he ran his eyes over the group of portraits covering the walls. Anticipation filled him rather quickly and the adrenaline rising in his body caused a very loud drumming sound to rhythmically beat in his ears. His heart began to beat very loudly, until he was sure that he was on the verge of exploding.

It was perfect timing when he finally saw it.

The young man was smiling broadly, as if he were waiting for him to come all along. Among the vast of old fashioned looking portraits, he stood out like a sore thumb with the Canary Creams he was expertly juggling in his hands.

George did not dare breathe. An unknown feeling seemed to seep through his insides and he was sure his heart was swelling with the one emotion he did not have access to for an entire month. He took a step forward making him painfully close to the portrait and reached out to touch it with a trembling finger.

He traced the pad of his index finger across the bottom of the portrait, feeling a smooth, wooden edge. Much to his relief, it did not disappear. It did not crumble into a million little pieces, nor did it vanish like a mirage would. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath. When he opened them again a good five seconds later, everything was still the same. The portrait was still there as was the young man currently residing in it. He continued to grin, which gave George the final push he needed to utter the words that had been on his tongue for far too long.

"Hello Gred," He said quietly, though his insides were jumping with glee.

"Hello Forge," He responded, though he felt no such thing in his insides, for he had none.

Thus began the resumption of a beautiful relationship.

* * *

_A/N: This chapter was extremely difficult to write on my part, but I kind of like the way it turned out. Summer at the Burrow won't last forever, though, and I'm still deciding on whether or not I should send Ron and Harry back to school with Hermione and Ginny. Any thoughts? Suggestions?_

_Be sure to tell me in a review. ;)_


	18. Holly

Swirls of harsh wind flowed subtly through her slightly open bedroom window, and the gusts that followed every few minutes sent her shivering all the way down to her toes. Despite the warm afghan her mother had lent her and the Weasley jumper she was currently wearing, the cold had still managed to seep through the threads of fabric, sending her in a fit of shaking all over again.

Sighing deeply, she levitated her large copy of _Wuthering Heights_ so that it landed neatly upon her desk. Craning her neck and lifting her torso, she readjusted the pillows propped up against her headboard so that it would not stiffen her neck so much.

Tonight, contrary to other nights, she was not in the mood to read. No matter how much she squinted at the sentences in front of her, her efforts at losing herself in the parallel worlds of Heathcliff and Catherine were completely futile. After about spending ten minutes staring at one page and not managing to understand any of the words printed neatly before her eyes, she gave up on the idea and put it to rest.

Although the sharp winds outside had settled down, she still continued to wrap her arms around her torso, rubbing her hands gently over her arms. The jumper- _Ron's_ jumper, to be precise- was doing her justice, and she marveled at how warm it made her feel. It had nothing to do with the worn fabric, of course, but the fact that Ron more or less had paraded around a good deal of places wearing it. A faint blush appeared across her cheeks as she thought of him.

Toying with loose ends of the yarn that had come undone, she felt slightly better as she felt the soft material. The _R_ on the chest intrigued her most, and she lightly touched the silky lines of fabric where the letter came together. Though the pragmatic side of her found the idea entirely illogical, she felt, as if through this simple action, she was becoming connected to him.

She sighed once more and it dawned on her that she had been making these involuntary noises for quite a while. Of course, life in Australia was lovely with her parents. Simple little things like solving the Daily Crossword Puzzle, courtesy of the local newspaper, or drinking warm tea on a particularly cold night like this had made her completely at ease. It was as if slowly, through these significant actions, she was rebuilding her relationship with her parents.

However, not all things were that simple.

To put it bluntly, Hermione was blatantly shocked at how hard it was to be away from Ron. She understood that it would be difficult, with their feelings out in the open and more or less being translated through 'certain actions', but the idea of not being able to hear, or touch, or _divulge_ in him was pushing her closer to the brink of insanity.

Releasing some sort of strangled noise from the back of her throat, she tossed and turned helplessly in her bed. Aside from the bitter cold permeating through her window and the clear restlessness evident by her actions, she was missing Ron to the point where it was almost unhealthy.

Naturally, it was perfect timing when the owl arrived.

* * *

"Harry?" Ginny asked. Her hair flew like a cape behind her as the breeze sifted through it gently.

"Hm?"

"Are all Muggles completely barmy like that when it comes to purchasing toys?"

He gave a bark of laughter, eyeing her appreciatively. "Well, I'm sure they'd have the same reaction if they happened to see a trick wand."

Ginny placed her hands on her hips, though the gesture was not as effective considering that the two of them were strolling down a sidewalk. She looked indignant. "What's wrong with trick wands? At least they don't make strange noises or wear sunglasses!"

"Gee, aside from the fact that they transfigure into a stuffed magical creature right before your very eyes?" He asked sarcastically.

"Shut up, Harry," Ginny said in a huff, though her eyes appeared to be playful. "Besides, _your_ eyes were as big as treacle tarts when that mad woman stuffed the poor wolf!"

He slightly shuddered at the thought, before glancing down at the large, house-shaped box he was currently swinging from one hand. "I look like a complete git, don't I?" He asked warily.

Ginny giggled at him; she had refused to hold the cardboard house herself. "No more than usual."

* * *

The daffodils and wildflowers swayed gently against a torrent of wind and everything was still and quiet. Other than a mess of gangly limbs currently walking around languidly, the Burrow was empty.

True to his word, Charlie returned to Hogwarts to aid in repairing the school, along with several other Order members (including Molly.) George had accompanied him; if he was going merely to talk to Fred's portrait, no one addressed the issue. Bill and Fleur had returned to Shell Cottage, while Arthur and Percy traveled to the Ministry of Magic together. Arthur wasted no time in arriving at the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Percy, on the other hand, was using his secretarial skills to aid Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Ginny and Harry had asked Ron if he would fancy taking a trip to Muggle London. On his first visit to Andromeda's home, Harry had spotted an enchanting looking Muggle toy store on the way to an ideal Apparition spot in an alley. For his second visit, he thought it would be appropriate to purchase a toy for Teddy; Ginny heartily agreed.

Ron, who wasn't feeling as enthusiastic about most things due to the absence of Hermione, politely declined. Instead, he chose to savor the peace of quite in the Burrow and satisfy that empty stomach of his.

After fixing himself a sandwich and wrapping it in a serviette, he trudged upstairs to the fifth floor and continued to munch on his food. Upon arriving at the door to his bedroom, he heaved a great sigh and pushed the door open with his free hand. After placing his serviette on his desk, he pulled off his jumper in a fluid motion and tugged at his white undershirt as if in desperate need for some air. Settling on his bed in a comfortable position, he turned to his side and traced the spot Hermione had slept in on more than one occasion at the Burrow.

A determination filled him and he vowed not to think about Hermione in this way where he translated his feelings of devotion into frustration. When Nougat arrived at his window soon enough, he was sure that he would feel a little more at ease. As if in an afterthought, he turned his head slightly towards his window forlornly, hoping to see the owl fluttering nearby.

Of course, there was more to think about other than a piece of parchment covered in delicate handwriting. He fell into a void of confusion as he thought about Fred and the portrait. Truth be told, he felt a little frightened about it. Lately, he had been one to calculate things like age and various other degrees of numbers; it was no longer rare for him to think ahead into the future. It was a thorough reason that explained why he often found himself figuring out how many Galleons he would need to purchase a plot of land for a cottage- his and _Hermione's_ cottage.

And while ideas like that made him feel so vibrant and alive, the thought of the Weasley's dying out and Fred's portrait remaining all alone in a dingy building in Diagon Alley was what really made him tense. It was a silly thought, no doubt, considering that a portrait was nowhere near as similar as a living, breathing form. Still, he could not help but rearrange and analyze every bit of McGonagall's explanation, as if purposely _trying_ to find a loophole that would tangent into a wide array of problems.

He knew one thing for sure; he would not voice any of his fear to anyone. At least, not his immediate family members. At this moment, he longed for Hermione's logic to drive any inane ideas straight out of his head. While her voice did get a tad shrill when she enthusiastically ventured off into one of her explanations, he was sure that he would ultimately trust her take on things, no matter what.

It was ultimately the reason why she completed him.

* * *

A large bush of yew was the only thing remotely colorful; anything else beyond it was bleak and austere. It remained still despite the gusts attempting to disturb it violently. Though it would appear merely as a type of plant to anyone else, it was an emblem for what they had devoted themselves to for all of their lives.

Beyond that threatening hedge lay a small, sinister looking house. It kept an air of mystery and aloofness; to anyone else, it was only to be regarded as an unimportant dwelling in which a barmy, old loon may have once resided in. Like the yew, it was merely seen as what was. The qualities that were not there were not noticed.

"Well?" The authoritative voice asked impatiently. "What is the assessment?"

"They're too far apart." Quietly, a burly looking wizard answered.

"But isn't that what we've been aiming for?" A timid voice asked. "To lure one in and let the others follow?"

"They must be close together," The authoritative voice finally decided. "If something occurs internationally, the entire Ministry will become restless."

"When will we carry out with our plans, then?"

"When the time is right," The first voice said. "When a façade of security is created, we will see to it that they will no longer be safe."

With a curt nod, he finished speaking. The others took this as their cue to leave; they left the man to himself as they filed neatly out of the room with precision.

His words continue to echo, serving as their mantra. The yew remained untroubled.

* * *

_A/N: First of all, I'm very sorry for the long delay. Periods of writer's block and a hefty load of summer homework pretty much took their toll for the past ten days or so. Aside from that, this website wasn't letting me log in or review for an entire day, much to my annoyance._

_There's quite a bit of symbolism in this chapter; though I heartily think that it's definitely not one of my best, it sets the tone for a lot of important ideas. For example, Ron's uneasiness towards the portrait mirrors my own dubiousness._

_Also, throughout these next few chapters, I want to depict Hermione with books, preferrably classics. I've already used _A Summer to Die _and _Wuthering Heights_, but if you have a favorite novel that was published _during_ or _before_ May 1998, please let me know so I can add it to future chapters._

_Hit that review button, please. :)_


	19. Old Folks

A delicate sun greeted the Grangers in the morning as they tiredly removed themselves out of their bedrooms. Its rays brought enigmatic light to practically every margin of the house; undeniable warmth settled among the perimeter of the rooms. It was quite a contrast to the night before, in which cold swiftly situated itself in every possible form.

Jean and Jack settled in the kitchen; Jean prepared tea for the family while Jack attempted to find something edible for breakfast in the refrigerator and various cupboards.

"Vegemite," He muttered, wrinkling his nose as he found the large jar nestled against a loaf of bread. "Why do we buy that ruddy stuff anyway, Jean? It's repulsive."

Jean made a face at his choice of words. "It _happens_ to be a cultural icon, Jack," She responded coolly as she ducked her head in a cabinet to find a suitable kettle. "Besides, you're probably the only person inhabiting Australia who doesn't like vegemite." She smiled in approval to herself as she found a yellow one with a whistle attached to its spout.

"It's an insult to toast!" He said incredulously, flailing his arms widely for emphasis. "Toast meshes well with butter. It pairs wonderfully with jam. But _vegemite_?"

"Are you personifying toast, Jack?" Jean asked, trying hard to hide her amusement. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you've been satisfying yourself with large amounts of laughing gas from the dentistry, dear." She found the familiar canister filled with tea leaves and sniffed appreciatively.

"Do we even know what vegemite is made from?" He asked darkly, more to himself than his wife. "Honestly, it looks like _tar_ to me."

"It's made from yeast extract," She said mildly. "Although I suppose that in your opinion, toast and tar don't mesh quite well, either."

"Very funny, Jean," Jack said sarcastically, as he placed the loaf of bread on the countertop. "That's exactly what I married you for; your _lovely_ sense of humor."

"Along with my good looks and charm," Jean said indifferently as she placed the kettle under the tap in the sink. "And my quick wit and ability to save your bum in every possible situation..." Her words died in the back of her throat as she felt his presence behind her. He naturally wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling the back of her neck.

"Don't forget your hair," He mumbled against her skin. "I am _mad_ about the smell of your hair." As if to prove his point, he inhaled a few loose tendrils deeply.

She smiled bashfully, feeling young all over again. His breath tickled the back of her neck; as if on cue, a flurry of butterflies fluttered restlessly in her stomach. She settled her arms on her abdomen above his, marveling at the warmth of his flesh.

In that tender moment, Jean found her liking for vegemite increasing _greatly_.

* * *

Charlie rubbed his shoulder roughly; a falling piece of rubble had unceremoniously landed on it. He raked his eyes over the blatant hole in the wall in front of him, chiding himself for tending to Nymphadora Tonks wholeheartedly while leaving his Charms homework unattended during his years at Hogwarts.

He felt a twinge of undeniable pain as he recalled his name in her head. He had always been enchanted by her abilities as a Metamorphagus, as was everyone else in their school. Still, their relationship had developed quite well from the first day they had met on a steady foundation of trust and acceptance, rather than good looks and the ability to morph into one of the more odious teachers.

The day was as clear to him as the damage done in front of him.

_"Nymphadora!" A young girl whispered excitedly, paying no attention to the violent Devil's Snare assigned to her. "Can you turn into Snape, again?"_

_"It's Tonks," Nymphadora said through gritted teach as she looked up from her own Devil's Snare. At first, she was generally pleased with all of the attention she was receiving due to her being a Metamorphagus, but after being asked to change her features during every free minute of her day, she felt irked to no end._

_When the girl continued to stare at her pointedly, she inwardly groaned before contorting her face. Gone were her normal, mousy features; they were replaced with a hook shaped nose, greasy hair, and shrewd, black eyes._

_The girl grinned gleefully, before whispering, "Thanks, Nymphadora!"_

_She merely grimaced before changing her features once again. Returning her attention to the potted plant, an expression of distaste came_ _about her face as she stared at it, as it began thrashing around restlessly, nearly slapping her in the face._

_As the Herbology period progressed, she was continuously asked by other hopeful students to change into various Professors when Professor Sprout wasn't looking. A pudgy Hufflepuff boy even had the audacity to ask her to morph into Celestina Warbeck! When Professor Sprout finally addressed the class and told them the period was over, she breathed a sigh of relief as she packed her bag with her notes for the day. In a hurry to get out of the Herbology Greenhouse as quickly as possible, she slammed into another student unexpectedly before falling to the ground in a heap._

_"Sweet Merlin! Is she alright?"_

_"Careful, you might step on her notes!"_

_"Do you think it will affect her Metamorphagus abilities?"_

_"I hope not! Besides, I was gonna ask her if she could morph into Filch!"_

_"That would be a laugh, mate! Do you think Nymphadora would get mad if we threw Dungbombs at her while she was in that form? It'd be great practice, you know."_

_Recovering her senses, she batted away all hands of help, insisting she was fine. When the crowd still continued to linger, she reminded them about the test in Transfiguration- if they hurried, they still had time to perfect the spell used to turn their water goblets into animals! This little reminder did the trick, and the students scurried off. _

_Groaning slightly as she stood up, she began to retrieve her possessions which had fallen out of the confinements of her bag. She felt the irritation rise again when someone timidly tapped her on the shoulder. Feeling as if she would explode, she no longer bothered to contain her anger as she whirled around and looked at the Gryffindor boy square in the face._

_"What?!" She snarled, more harshly than she had intended. "I suppose you want me to transform into, oh, I don't know, sodding Mrs. Norris or something, don't you?"_

_"Actually," The boy said, averting her venomous glare, "I wanted to return your quill. It fell out of your bag..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling shy. He dumbly pointed to the spot where it had fallen with as much dignity as he could muster._

_"Oh," She said quietly, suddenly feeling foolish. She reached for her quill, eyes downcast. "Thanks. I thought you wanted me to... you know..."_

_"Transform into sodding Mrs. Norris?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. Realizing that she felt just as nervous as he did, he grinned to lighten up the mood. "Nah, it's alright, Tonks. To tell you the truth, I got a little bored with it after you morphed into Dumbledore for the hundredth time."_

_Suddenly, she was feeling a lot better as she realized that someone was earnestly talking to her. Someone who was not a Professor; someone who didn't call her 'Nymphadora' or ask her to use her abilities for his or her own amusement. She decided that she liked this very much._

_"I'm Nymphadora Tonks," She shyly said, extending a free hand. _

_"But you like being called Tonks, right?" He asked, accepting her hand in his larger, freckled one._

_"Yeah," She said, marveling at his strong grasp. "My Mum loves the name Nymphadora- she says that it's an old family name." Her expression turned defiant. "I really don't like it, so much that my Dad calls me 'Dora' for short. Still, I think 'Tonks' sounds a lot cooler." Realizing that she was rambling, a tinge of red sprinkled across her nose and cheeks in the form of a blush._

_"My name's Charlie Weasley," He said, pushing his ginger locks out of his face. "I don't think 'Charlie' is an old family name, but my Mum loves it all the same." He grinned cheekily at her, before fiddling with the strap of his bag. He took a deep breath. "Maybe I'll... I dunno, see you around school?"_

_She demurely nodded. "I'd like that."_

_He beamed at her again, before placing the strap of his bag on his shoulder and walking out of the Greenhouse. As he ventured nearer to the door, he stopped and turned around._

_"You know what?" He asked._

_"What?"_

_"You're right," He said. "'Tonks' definitely sounds cooler." Giving her one last fleeting smile, he walked out of the classroom, unable to shake that mousy face out of his thoughts._

And unlike the destructed wall he was currently fixing with a quiet _Duro_, he could not mend this other aspect. With clarity, he remembered the bond he had with Tonks; the secrets the two of them had shared. He had several friends at Hogwarts, with his superior Quidditch skills and his knack for getting dates. Still, he was different on the inside. Even among his family members, he singled himself out as the odd one. He was clever at hiding his insecurities, though there were few. They were not fueled by rude remarks, but the shadows he created for himself as a child.

Tonks, however, was not the same. She was playful and vibrant and sometimes so painfully clueless, though that particular attribute worked in her favor. She was comfortable in her own skin- something that Charlie could not began to fathom. Even without determination or a steady plan, she could easily talk to people.

Though she rarely bothered to bring it up, she often felt alienated herself. Her mother tried her best to answer all the questions, like why they couldn't go see Grandmum on Boxing Day and drink Butterbeer like Charlie often did with his own large family. Why did she have a mess of Muggle cousins on her Dad's side of the family, while her Mum's relatives were never seen?

Charlie and Tonks had gained a type of popularity for their abilities, but their personalities were left unforgotten. Gradually, people would come to realize that Tonks really _did_ prefer her surname and that Charlie had an inevitable affinity for magical creatures. Still, with lucidity, the two of them would remember the light they found in each other from day one.

A romantic relationship bloomed unexpectedly between the pair, ignited by the awkward brush of hands and the boundary of friendship and lust. Together, they tried to go one step further, though they put the idea to rest eventually. Still, they remained the best of friends up until the day of graduation.

After the end of the following summer, everything was lost.

Tonks was herded by the Auror Department; her accomplishment was regarded with uneasiness on her mother's behalf, and pride on her father's. Faced with three years of extensive training, she lost most contact with people other than fellow Auror trainees and her own immediate family.

Charlie made the difficult decision to travel to Romania and accept the offer he had received from a prestigious Dragon Reserve. The Dragon Keepers promised him ample preparation for a future career in Dragon Keeping, and the salary would be adequate enough for him to support himself and have a little extra to send home to his parents. To say that he loved his job would be an understatement. He found a connection with every possible facet in his work and this made him feel welcomed. A sense of belonging overcame him; something that was only imminent with Tonks.

No doubt, it was a grand opportunity. Still, he often thought about whether outcomes would have been different had he stayed home, close to his family and close to Tonks.

In the end, he decided it was less painful this way.

* * *

A haughty looking owl flew elegantly in circles, its pristine, black feathers contrasting greatly against a vivid sky. Even from this high point, its remarkable vision could make out the scattering bodies of humans and the green vegetation completing the picture.

The owl began to grow restless in the air and sailed downwards gracefully, its beak protruding like a sharp weapon. Finding the familiar hedge of yew, it flew towards the long, slender leaves, the tips of its wings brushing against them.

The window of the house remained open, as it was when the owl had taken flight. A man stood next to it, drumming his pale fingers against the sill with precision. Though his hair was in desperate need of a trim and his eyes reflected his morose attitude, he still kept his air of regality.

Soaring closer and closer to the window, the owl hooted softly as it ventured near the edge of the sill. The man looked up, his eyes interlocking with the black being. Wordlessly holding out his arm, the owl rested its body upon it, fluffing its feathers.

"Hello," He said softly, his voice practically inaudible. "Did you have a nice fly?"

The bird hooted in response, as if voicing its approval of the crisp air and the clear skies.

"Yes, well, I'm having a nice time myself," The man responded. His voice was calm and collected, though traces of malice lingered in his words. "A nice time, indeed."

He took a deep, strangled breath. His sigh sounded unusually strained, as if he would succumb to a coughing fit in any moment. Regaining his composure, he turned to look at the owl once more.

"Don't worry, girl," He murmured softly, sifting his fingers through the owl's feather. "We _will_ get our revenge."

* * *

_A/N: I hope you liked this chapter- I had a lot of fun writing the scene with Jean and Jack. :)_

_Also, the bit regarding the man and his owl has quite a few subtle clues. Kudos to you if you can guess who this man is. _

_**CelticScorpion**__ was nice enough to name some classics. I'm looking forward to possible writing a scene about Jack fondly remembering Hermione's unhealthy aspiration to be just like Scout Finch. ;)_

_I've written another Ron/Hermione story called 'Reptilian Complex.' I would be eternally grateful if you would take a few moments to read it (and leave a review.) :D_

_Speaking of reviews... that 'Go' button is looking mighty fine. :)_


	20. Inside Out

Ominous, grey clouds hid the sun elusively as they forcefully claimed the sky. Moving in aggressively, their ultimate standstill brought a type of irregular bleakness that broke away at the thickest walls and managed to captivate.

The house remained empty, literally. After much thinking on their parts, the Grangers decided to either sell or donate all of their belongings, considering that they had all their necessities in England. Save for a few Australian souvenirs and some articles of clothing, the house became a ghost of itself as its decorations discreetly began to disappear.

Impertinently, the silence of the home was loud and rampant, ringing like a clamoring bell. Still, in the confinements of her bedroom, Hermione felt content. She ran her index finger down the spine of her leather bound book, relishing in the quality of its cover.

The book itself was not unfamiliar to her. She had read it before, sometime during one of her summer breaks, away from Hogwarts and away from the Burrow.

_Away from Ron_.

She was somewhat eager to relax in the threshold to the Muggle world, where the knowledge was just as impressive. There was something absolutely enthralling about reading Muggle literature; it held the key to that realm she craved.

In fact, if she paid close attention to the fragments written in front of her, dissecting each statement and paradox meticulously, things would surely change. The entire world would float away from her fingertips, gracefully settling itself in some foreign, unattainable void. She could be sitting in a room filled with boisterous people and drunken conversations and she would not notice in the least bit. The true reality would pass by unnoticed; the voices her ears were so accustomed to hearing would fade away to silence.

To her, this was peace.

However, it disappeared into the confinements of her suitcase as she reluctantly placed it in one of the pouches. While her luggage bag lacked clothing, even though she had been in Australia for a few weeks, it was filled to the brim with books.

She sifted through the copies gingerly, as if not wishing to disturb the characters residing in them. Catching a few titles winking back at her from their glossy text, she smiled to herself softly as she felt a warm sensation of nostalgia course through her body.

Her parents' reactions to her attachment to bookstores situated near Darling Harbor were a combination of amused and exasperated. She had copies of the very same stories back home, but there was something special about having a certain copy from a different country like Australia. Perhaps it was cultural attachment, or the thought of having a type of unique souvenir of her own to take home. Nonetheless, it made her feel all the more content.

Though some stories were purely for her and her comfort, she had taken the liberty of purchasing a few romance novels for Ginny. There was _Romeo and Juliet_, a story she found to be not as compelling as the schoolteachers would proclaim. Personally, she preferred _Much Ado About Nothing_; she felt as if the quarrels frequently ignited between Beatrice and Benedick provided much more liveliness than the perils of two 'star crossed lovers.'

Other than those two, she bought an elaborate-looking copy of _Pride and Prejudice_, something she knew both she _and_ Ginny would agree on. With clarity, she remembered the fondness she developed for Mr. Darcy after she read the novel, marveling at the soft disposition hidden beneath his rough exterior. Aside from that, there were happy endings all around, weren't there?

She was in desperate need of a happy ending.

* * *

The overwhelming crowds at the airport continued to push and shove under the anxiety of their next flights. Hermione's eyes became accustomed to the large suitcases and backpacks adorning the attire of the unhealthy amount of people. She managed to sidestep several runaway wheels of the luggage people were currently dragging, though the same could not be said for Hestia Jones.

She continued to grumble under her breath as she led her family into a lounging room where they immediately settled into some of the comfortable-looking chairs the large space was filled with. She ruefully thought that this was at least _one_ thing she was familiar with, compared to the barmy contraptions of Muggles that she had an entire trip to witness.

"Remind me again why Kingsley chose Muggle airplanes over a simple, efficient Portkey?" Hestia asked to no one in particular, as she rubbed her hands over her boots, attempting to deliver some justice to her severely swollen feet.

The sight of her was quite outlandish and it took the entire amount of self-control of the lingering passerby to not deliver curious stares or laugh at her attire. She was currently wearing a bright, orange parka that was much too big for her body, along with a white sirwal- something that she had picked up hastily in an airport clothing store. Thankfully, her Wellington boots were a solid blue and gave no impression of a bizarre design.

Needless to say, she looked absolutely absurd.

"Aside from the fact that the Portkeys didn't sit too well with my parents?" Hermione asked dryly, a smile evident in her voice.

"My arse will _never_ be the same again," Jack said darkly, making a point to discreetly rub his backside.

"Yes, well," Hermione continued amusedly. "Dismissing all aspects of Dad's bum, Kingsley told us that we'd be much better off taking international flights. It would be a lot safer, according to him." Her voice waivered at this last bit. They hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary, nor were they attacked in any way shape or form. Still, even with an Order of the Phoenix member keeping watch and accompanying them on their trip, she still felt a little unsafe.

"Remind me to have a word with Kingsley when we return," She responded loftily. "In fact, I propose we book him about, oh, I don't know... twenty flights or so? Seven hours long apiece?" She grinned menacingly.

The Grangers all continued to peer at her curiously in response.

"I'm merely joking," She said, holding her hands up in mock defeat. Swiftly changing the subject, she began to discuss their next flight as she pulled an itinerary out of her pocket, along with a ballpoint pen. "Merlin, how do you _use_ these things?"

Jane smiled reassuringly before reaching out to pluck the pen out of Hestia's hand. "Like this, dear," She demonstrated, placing the pad of her thumb on the top of it. "Nothing to it."

"Right," Hestia murmured sheepishly, before retrieving the writing tool. She returned her attention to the frayed-looking parchment in front of her. "Ah, well, let's see. We've made it to Dubai in one piece, haven't we? Aside from the issues regarding Jack's arse, of course, and my permanently swollen feet." Warily, she glanced down at her boots, before drawing a checkmark next to the word _Dubai_ with her pen. "We're heading to Sofia in Bulgaria next. Our flight leaves in about three hours."

"Perfect amount of time to take a kip," Jack said thickly, reclining in his chair.

"And to get a snack," Jean pointed out. "I'm absolutely famished." She reached for her handbag, thumbing through her wallet to find some coins. "I'll have to find a money transfer, though..."

As Jean's voice died away in her ears, Hermione returned to her thoughts, solely to remember Ron. A delicate blush rose up her cheeks as she drew her knees to her chest. Fervently tracing the hem of her jumper with a fingertip, she remembered with clarity the last few hours she had spent with Ron prior to his return to the Burrow. The softness of his lips brushing against hers, and that urgency evident in the background as if they had no time to waste; that was what made her feel so _alive_. It was as if Ron was her last lifeline to sanity in a world where people died as easily as they breathed.

As she tiredly ran her fingers through her knot of curls, she recalled fondly the way Ron cradled her tendrils in a very similar fashion. His fingers managed to separate her stubborn strands with ease, as if he were the one meant to do the job all along. The way his breath lingered upon her face, feeling warm and familiar after they stopped for a few minutes to settle in the sense of unaccustomed euphoria.

A smile unconsciously stretched out her lips as she remembered Ron's own smile; exuberant and pleasantly surprised with a few traces of guilt as if he felt that he had gone too far.

_He could never go too far._

A new type of hunger began to grow inside of her. It was something different and exhilarating, but she was afraid to accept it. It was a type of feeling that justified her strong desire to always be with him, even if 'always' meant an eternity.

_I need him just as much as he needs me_.

Even though the concept of Death Eaters had not completely disappeared with the absence of Voldemort, she could not succumb to that fear completely while she focused solely on Ron. And whether this was a blessing in disguise or a key point to her own demise, she did not know.

At least, not yet.

* * *

He was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He was rocking back and forth slightly- though one would have to pay very close attention to notice. The corridor, aside from the various photographs aligning the walls, was completely empty aside from his presence. Not bothering to address anything else within vicinity, he began to take to one portrait in particular eagerly.

"Hullo, Gred," He said, a wide grin settling on his features.

"Forge," The portrait responded, beaming. "What brings you here, brother?"

The young man remained befuddled for a small moment, though he attempted to hide his confusion. "Well," He said slowly, trying to find bravado in his voice, "I came here to see you, of course! After all, Percy can get quite boring after a while."

Somehow, the portrait managed to snort. "Well, Merlin forbid that Percy gains even a slight sense of humor. It made tarnish his reputation as a complete prat, you know-"

"I'm sure it wouldn't settle quite well with the Minister either-"

"Or the National Wizarding Organization for Pompous Morons-"

"I doubt his Head Boy badge, the one that's probably hidden safely in his knickers drawer, wouldn't shine quite as brightly-"

"I'm sure he'd lose all of his friends with similar git-like tendencies-"

"The bird he's managed to woo probably wouldn't stick around either-"

"Percy's got a girl?" Fred asked incredulously, clearly shocked.

George tugged at the neckline of his jumper, shifting slightly in his position. "I think so, mate," He said lowly. "I'm pretty sure she's a Muggle. I doubt that it's serious, though."

"A Muggle eh?" Fred asked curiously. "Wow, Forge. I always thought it'd be Penelope Clearwater for him, you know."

"Penelope? No way! I bet she ran off the minute she came to her senses, brother. Though she _was_ sticking around for quite a while. And to think she was a Ravenclaw..." George trailed off uncertainly.

The type of smile that graced Fred's face was almost a little morose. "Wow," He said again, as if not over the turn of events. "Thingsjust keep changing, don't they?"

George nodded, looking uncomfortable. "That seems to be the theme of this month," He answered a little nervously, an anxious chuckle escaping his lips.

_And the next month. And the month following that. And maybe the month to come after that month_.

And so they did.

* * *

There is no grave for her.

When he recalls her memory, death does not cross his mind. She is too grand for death; her bold appearance and sharp tongue do not mesh well with the prospect of defeat.

He thinks about the absurdity of a grave marker. With pity and disgust, he recalls the rituals he has heard of. The asinine common folk _honor_ the dead with a pristine looking slab of marble, thinking that they are easing the pain.

Poor fools.

They engrave sweet nothings and sentimental garbage on the marker, thinking that they are reflecting of a person's principles. They believe, though he cannot fathom why, that they are truly making a difference. They view the inscribed quotations as an accomplishment, as if they have put a demon of grief inside of themselves to rest.

These sorry excuses for people do not end their task there. At their own pace, they visit these graves multiple times, to lay flowers and to say a few words. He wrinkles his nose in contempt as he imagines someone doing this. To him, it is pointless. The flowers are sure to die; either that or the wind will unceremoniously carry them away. The words will never reach the deceased- they become nothing but inaudible murmurs the moment they are said.

He has no words for her.

* * *

_A/N: In case there's any confusion, Hermione is finally going back home! I decided to scratch the idea of the multiple Portkeys, seeing as how Jean and Jack wouldn't exactly be jumping up and down excitedly to experience the sensation of them._

_I already have ideas regarding Hermione and Ron for the next chapter, and I cannot wait to write that. Get ready for some fluff :)_

_The scene about Fred and George is really important. Notice how Fred inquires as to why George is there. This is kind of the beginning of Fred's subtle pleas for George to move on with his life. It's crucial to George's developement in the actual Harry Potter series and this story as well._

_As for the last bit, I will seriously be your best friend if you can guess who this person is. And please, do NOT suggest Lucius (or Draco) Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy is not competent enough to be this mysterious! I've given a lot of hints, but I suppose the least I can do (aside from giving away the name directly) is recall some of the clues. This person has an air of regality (meaning he may be wealthy), is a sole supporter of Voldemort's cause (hence the yew) and has recently lost a loved one (obviously a woman)._

_I'm curious to read your guesses in your reviews, of course. _:D


	21. Glee on My Sleeve

The dark alley brought alight dwindling memories of a precarious trip to the Ministry under the influences of Polyjuice Potion. A few passerbies loitered around the area, though not for long as they sidestepped the cluttered streets and made their way to a more serene premise.

An old telephone booth looked fairly vacant, adorning an _Out of Order_ sign. Wordlessly, Hestia Jones held the door open and stepped inside with Hermione in tow. Jean and Jack began to share confused glances with each other, considering that they were told that they'd be going to the Ministry of Magic shortly after their flight from Le Havre; this old, telephone booth seemed to be the most irrelevant thing in the area.

Hermione made a hurried hand gesture, indicating for the couple to step inside. Hestia took the liberty of dialing '62442' and a cool, collected voice of a witch echoed throughout the bare, tight booth. Four silver badges were released from some sort of compartment, each bearing a different name with the same purpose, aside from Hestia's. While the Granger's collected their badges saying _Present to Request a Floo Network Connection_, Hestia's reflected of her duty to accompany them, appropriately stating _Present to Escort the Grangers to Level 6: the Floo Network Authority_.

The telephone booth began to descend downwards; the sudden lurch startled Jean and Jack so much that they instinctively held on to Hermione until they found themselves stepping on common ground. The two of them breathed a sigh of relief, letting go of their daughter and opting to link arms instead as they walked through the crowded throngs of people.

The Security Desk at the far end of the Atrium was being handled by a man in peacock blue robes. Looking fairly bored, he swiftly reached for the wand Hermione held in front of her. Reciting 'Vine Wood and Dragon Heartstring Core' in an uninterested, monotone voice, he handed back the balanced wand to her and immediately assisted the next person behind them.

The Ministry was loud and boisterous, filled with several groups of harassed looking wizards and witches. Hermione noted that some looked quite frazzled and frustrated as they levitated notes to adjacent offices and attempted to possess a spot in an already packed lift. Still, she was secretly pleased at the prospect of busy people and confusion- it guaranteed that she would not be recognized so easily, or even worse, placed on the spot through automatic gestures of thanks and appreciation.

As Hestia led them passed the Golden Gates and into the nearby lift, she ducked her head slightly and made a point to allow a few coarse strands of hair fall naturally into her face. _At this rate,_ Hermione mused, _the only person who will manage to recognize me will probably be_-

"_Hermione_?" Arthur said incredulously, straightening his spectacles and glancing up from the thick folder he was currently holding. He had been trudging towards the lift with an alarming-looking folder in his hand, sifting through a few pages every few minutes. Managing to hold the lift's door open with his foot, he glanced up in surprise at the sight of the young witch.

"Hi, Mr. Weasley," Hermione said warmly as Arthur dumbly stepped in and the lift's doors closed behind him.

"What in the name of Merlin's culcalotors are you doing here?" Arthur asked in a shocked tone. He wrinkled his nose briefly for a moment, as if deep in thought. "Did I say that right? _Culcalator_? Well, regardless of the name, I must say that they're absolutely delightful. Some of them don't even need ecklectricity to function!"

He grinned broadly, momentarily forgetting the heavy stack of papers in the worn folder he was currently hauling around the Ministry. Continuing to smile goofily at the thought of Arithmancy revolutionized, he did a double take as soon as he caught sight of the couple standing anxiously besides Hermione.

"_Jean?_" His voice squeaked, eager at the thought of a Muggle conveniently in the same lift as him. "Merlin's beard! I was feeling so fond about my new culcalator- so fond that I didn't even see you or Jack here..." He trailed off as he wrestled with the folder in his hands, trying not to emit waivers and notices everywhere in the lift. Attempting to place it underneath the crook of his shoulder in order to shake their hands in greeting, he gave up as the folder nearly fell precariously. He shrugged his shoulders in an apologetic manner, though he received a sincere response from Hermione's parents.

"It's very nice to see you again, Arthur," Jean said compassionately. "We didn't expect to see familiar faces so soon from the airport, actually."

Hermione sighed to herself in an amused type of way as Arthur's eyes lit up. "Airport?" He asked, almost hungrily as he leaned forward excitedly. "As in, the place where aero planes fly?"

Jack looked humored as he caught Hermione's wary glance. "That's generally the idea, Arthur. Aero planes are kept at airports and a professional pilot flies them to different cities. It's quite an exhilarating experience."

Hestia snorted audibly, and Jack chuckled. "Exhilarating," She scoffed good-naturedly. "Tell that to my feet."

Arthur's neck turned frighteningly quick as he spotted Hestia standing in the corner of the lift. "You went on an aero plane?" He questioned as his voice full of awe. "That must have been amazing!"

"If 'amazing' can be referred to as 'barmy'," Hestia responded dryly as she shifted from foot to foot. Tucking back a few strands of hair, she continued. "What level, Arthur?"

"Level 2, Hestia," Arthur responded tiredly, his voice losing all traces of eagerness. Pinching the bridge of his nose where his spectacles rested upon, he gave the impression of looking rather harassed.

"Magical Law Enforcement?" Hestia inquired sympathetically, letting out a low whistle. "That explains that hell of a folder you're carrying, then."

Arthur nodded, almost gravely. "I've been summoned by the Auror Department several times these last few weeks," He practically groaned as he leaned slightly against a corner of the lift while Hestia attended to its buttons. "Even with Voldemort vanquished, people are still finding ways to sell Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Objects. It's completely mad, I tell you; why a Muggle would need an amulet to ward of rogue Dementors, this I will never know.

"_Muggles_?" Hermione asked incredulously. "Surely they'd not be aware of what Dementors are in the first place?"

He shook his head grimly. "I'm afraid not. They've been swindled many times; perhaps even Confunded, though it's not just them. Some of the less fanatical Purebloods that need the gold have also been targeting their products towards witches and wizards." He warily adjusted his spectacles as he hugged the large folder to his chest. "Actually, they don't even have to be fanatical Purebloods, for that matter. It more or less explains why Mundungus Fletcher is involved."

Hestia made an affronted noise while Jean and Jack watched the unraveling conversation before them like a badminton match.

"He's not selling anything _harmful_, really," Arthur reassured her somewhat helplessly. "At least, nothing St. Mungo's couldn't fix in a jiffy." Deciding to steer the conversation into a somewhat more pleasant topic, he made a strike at conversation with Hestia. "So, when are you returning to the Ministry for work, Hestia?"

"In a few days or so, Arthur," Hestia responded, now examining his folder with a keen eye. "Of course, capturing these blackguards and chucking them into Azkaban makes the idea far more fulfilling. I'm sure Kingsley will hound me with a folder quite similar to yours the minute I walk into Headquarters."

He nodded back warily, but was drawn into another facet of conversation as he heard Hermione's timid voice.

"Mr. Weasley..." Hermione began, her voice expressing traces of uncertainty. "Do you think that this whole Counterfeit Defensive Spells business is extremely serious?"

Arthur eyed for a moment, as if racking his brain for a correct answer. Finally, he spoke. "Well, serious enough for links to be made between my Department and the Auror Headquarters. You have to understand that _this_ is kind of serious. However, the Auror Trainees are quite fit, Hermione. Besides, when we have merciless Aurors like Hestia out loose, the Dark Wizards that I imagine are most likely retreating to their corners and cowering in fear."

"Thank you, Arthur," Hestia said pleasantly, grinning from ear to ear. "It's nice to know that all these years of developing into a hard arse are finally paying off."

He chortled jovially in response, before turning to Hermione once again. "Will you and your lot be dropping by for dinner tonight, Hermione? I can always Floo Molly from the office and ask her to set out a few extra plates, if you'd like."

"Maybe tomorrow, Arthur," Jack said, though he felt flattered by the offer. "We were planning on using a day or two here to settle back into the house in Dorset."

"We're still conscious on Australian time, you know," Jean said, stifling a yawn. She glanced thoughtfully for a moment at the wistful expression on Hermione's face. "Still, Jack and I are well aware of the fact that Hermione wants to get reacquainted with her friends. Perhaps, if it's no trouble, she could stop by this evening for a night or two? We can drop by for dinner the day after tomorrow, or so."

"The more the merriment," Arthur said happily, pleased at the prospect of Muggles to question freely in the convenience of his own home. He furrowed his brow for the second time in the lift. "Did I say that right? I understand that it's an old Muggle expression."

"Close enough," Jean said amusedly. "It's _merrier_, but we get the gist of what you're trying to say, nonetheless."

Just then, the neutral voice of a witch rang out, indicating the level and its offices. "_Level 6: Department of Magical Transport, including the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Center._" A few paper airplanes flew swiftly into the lift as the doors opened, along with several, surly-looking wizards who appeared to be in a heated debate.

"That's our floor, Arthur," Hestia said, raising her voice a bit.

"We'll see you for dinner soon," Hermione added as they clambered out of the lift.

The doors closed at a somewhat slow pace; Arthur noted that eventually, a bushy head of hair disappeared from view completely.

* * *

The portrait remains deeply asleep and he restrains every nerve in his body in order to will away the urge to prod its frame.

Today, all he can do is muse.

With alacrity, he recalls his ideas about misfortune. Though he never let the thought consume him, there were times when the lack of wealth in a Gringotts Vault and the title of the worst Blood Traitors in the history of the Pureblood realms made him feel less fortunate.

Today, all he can do is helplessly steal glances at the portrait. Every few seconds or so, he begins to blink rapidly and a pungent taste overcomes his mouth, giving him the strong urge to vomit. Clutching his abdomen, he retches quietly until he tastes the diluted saltiness of tears prickling his lips.

Falling to the ground in a heap, he begins to rock himself in a soothing manner, willing for the demons to disappear. Bitterly, he thinks of the one person who can ease this unrelenting tension.

_How convenient that this person is no longer here_.

Gold is merely a necessity- though absolutely _nothing_ compared to what he truly longs for. He could care less about the engrossed Death Eaters; if he didn't feel so weak and vulnerable, he'd do away with every last one of those bastards.

With his senses slowly deteriorating and his mind completely numb, he dolefully understands what true misfortune really is.

* * *

Though she was very much so an adult, some of Hermione's childlike qualities still remained the same.

As a little girl, the only remedy for a frightening nightmare or the monster in the coat closet was to venture off towards her parents' bedroom, thus being lulled to sleep. It was merely a phase of a young child, of course, and her parents were not fazed by it in the least bit. On the contrary, Jack welcomed these nightly visits with bloodshot eyes and a groggy smile, pleased that there were still several chances to protect his daughter.

A good, few years later, that particular type of dependency had not changed. Though there was no chance, to blatantly put it, in hell that she would scamper off to Lavender's bed in the girls' dormitory for comforting, there was always the promising prospect of relaying all of her fears to Ginny.

Aside from that, she could recall with clarity the numerous times she would seek solace through her Mum, feet padding lightly as she made her way towards that familiar bedroom. Wordlessly, Jean would slide sideways to make room, nudging Jack gently as he made noncommittal grunts; the monsters and ghosts he could handle, but he always managed to remain _meters _away from the feminine problems.

Other times, when Jean felt agile enough, the two women would regroup to the kitchen, mulling over various things over a pot of tea. It was a common occurrence, taking place several times despite the situation. It was the most ideal setting, and Hermione favored it over all others when she expressed her initial apprehension about Hogwarts, or when she enthusiastically described her first _real_ friendships, courtesy of Harry and Ron. She could not even suppress her vivid anger over the Yule Ball long enough; Jean ended up heating a batch of impromptu pasties as Hermione vented. The nightly rituals of mother and daughter were enticingly meaningful, so much that even hostile regards to Lavender Brown could not sidestep their musings.

And so, on this unnaturally warm night, Hermione found herself leaning towards this dependency once again.

She was lying flat on her back, hands folded primly over her stomach as she glanced around the room. Everything remained still, aside from the spasmodic figures of the Holyhead Harpies as they flew with skill throughout the confinements of their poster. Through the clear glass of the window, she could catch glimpses of the four, skinny trees inhabiting the bare orchard. Everything was still and the time garnered peace.

And yet, she was _still_ restless.

Her mind felt numb; a dizzy array of swirls and colors swam around her head. The heat was stifling in Ginny's room. The young witch had already lost track of the number of times she had pushed her stubborn curls away and fanned the flesh of her legs beneath her nightgown. As a content feeling spread from the pit of her stomach, her face flushed noticeably as she remembered pivotal moments.

The night itself was fulfilling from the moment she stepped out of the Burrow's hearth, essentially being ambushed by Molly and Ginny while Harry and Ron stood in the background, goofy grins etched upon their faces. After managing to escape out of Molly's iron grip of a hug, she found herself facing yet _another_ ecstatic Weasley, though it was Ginny.

As the hours progressed, question after question was thrown at her. Whether it was an inquiry about her parents' safety in Dorset, or a thorough analysis on Arthur's behalf about the interior of an aero plane, her tongue was not given a moment of rest for more than a moment or two.

Of course, she _did_ manage to steal a few minutes in the exclusive company of Ron, though the two of them were interrupted at every interval, much to their chagrin. It was usually courtesy of Harry and Ginny- two teenagers who were normally so well versed in privacy when it came to intimacy. However, the pair did not take the slightest of hints (_anvil_ sized, in Hermione's opinion) and continued to follow Ron and Hermione around incessantly.

If she didn't love them so much, she probably would've gone mental.

Naturally, it was only fitting that she should succumb to that thrilling urge to retrieve some of that stolen time.

* * *

The moment he catches site of the frame, he feels a type of unfamiliar tingling in his skin. The prickly feeling will not subside; if anything, it grows stronger as he takes a defying step towards the mocking frame.

It is as if his body is moving on its own accord, ignoring all restraints and chidings. He glances down at his large, shoe-enclosed feet, which continue to move stubbornly. Step by step, they make a quiet noise as their sounds ricochet off the floors.

With brittle fear, he realizes that he is not ready at all.

Rubbing his exposed forearms fervently, he tries to ignore this emotional sensation entirely. Its not like him to pursue something as foreign as this; then again, he's never felt such a strong kind of intuition before. Summoning courage, he raises his lowered gaze and stares at the frame, willing himself not to his collected demeanor.

Without even running his fingertips over the smooth wood, he can already sense a type of strength resting among the coarse lines. There is something particularly unique about the miniscule engravings and the vignette itself. To him, it is something enthrallingly dynamic.

It seems absurdly paradoxical that her skin is far too fair for his liking. Her hair is not as vibrant and enigmatic as it once was- as he remembers so vividly. The two rosy folds that played the role of her lips are not as he remembers, and this frightens him.

Taking a deep breath, he suppresses a shudder that threatens to vibrate down his spine as he lifts a hesitant thumb. Remaining as immobile as he possibly can, he runs his thumb softly across her lips.

He finds that this simple gesture is just as comforting as it was so many years ago.

Her eyelids flutter open in shock as she catches the blazing gleam in his eyes. She cannot contain the grin that evidently begins to sprout on her face, as she is still shocked at the image of the person fulfilling her gaze.

She finds the key to her voice, and it sounds unnatural to her as a velvety type of sound escapes her throat.

"Wotcher, Charlie."

* * *

The long channel of stairs appeared daunting in the dead of the night, but she disregarded the notion as she clambered up the many steps ahead of her. A rising type of determination filled her up rather quickly, even as she winced at the blatant sound of the wheezing stairs.

Aside from the occasional creak or groan, everything was quiet. Even as she strained her ears for sounds of an awake being, Hermione could hear nothing out of the ordinary except for a soothing silence managing to ring loudly in her ears. The grainy wood of the staircase brushed her bare calves more than once, causing an unnatural shiver to envelope her body for a heavy moment.

The floors went by at a daunting pace as she purposefully strode upward, as if time was spinning away purposely fast. Though she chose not to fathom why, her heartbeat began to accelerate as she reached the fifth floor landing, gazing around the stretch of a hall as her feet carried her noiselessly across a smooth surface.

She reached a wide door, adorned with a sign covered with a flourishing _Ronald's Room_; she gaped at the sign for a few seconds before the twitching corners of her mouth pulled her out of her waning lull. The door was conveniently ajar, and she hesitantly slid her foot through the threshold, as if slowly gaining courage to enter completely.

Her right foot danced along the impeccable edge between familiarity and all things unknown. Tentatively, she edged the right side of her body along the grain of the door, her back shivering at the contact with cold finish. Inch by inch, she remained painstakingly slow as she granted her entire body access into the room.

Her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of him.

Harry's crumpled form lay curled up in a camp bed pushed towards the corner of the small bedroom, but her eyes dismissed his figure as she raked her eyes over Ron. At some point in the night, he must have hitched off his heavy blanket, revealing his lanky body in contrast to the wrinkled sheets.

He wore a simple, white shirt along with a pair of orange pyjama bottoms; scrutinizing, Hermione could make out the Chudley Cannons logo covering his trousers at random. His brow was heavily furrowed into frustration and a pasty arm was slung messily above his head.

And out of the blue, like a ribbon slowly being unraveled, she could feel something spectacular. Her heart swelled inside of her chest and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled with no inhibitions and practically all reserve was lost. Losing all regard towards her mind, she steadily began to walk forward to the bed, not quite sure what she was seeking.

In a matter of eagerness, though, she couldn't avoid the nuisance of a floorboard which gave a hearty creaking noise, effectively waking the young redhead up.

She refused to release the breath attempting to escape from her throat as she flinched at the ominous sound. Gradually, Ron began to emerge from his sleepy stupor and opened his eyes, settling in a sitting position and blinking a few times before vision was granted. The moment he caught sight of a silhouette, he retrieved his wand from behind his pillow and aimed it ruthlessly, a menacing growl escaping his lips.

"Ron!" Hermione squeaked, holding her hands in surrender in front of her face. Lowering her voice instinctively so she wouldn't wake Harry, she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Put the wand down! It's me!"

"_Hermione_?" Ron echoed dubiously in an equally low tone, lowering his wand. "What are you doing here? Are you alright?"

His eyes roamed around the room as if expecting to catch sight of a rogue Death Eater, and he muttered _Lumos_ before glancing questioningly at Hermione.

Slowly but surely, she began to blush. A rosy coloring tinted her cheeks as she avoided his gaze. The realization hit her like a particularly angry Blast-Ended Skrewt; perhaps paying an impromptu visit to Ron's bedroom wasn't such a good idea after all.

Finding her voice a few tedious moments later, she spewed the first excuse that came to her mind.

"I was bored," Hermione said lamely, flinching slightly at the utter absurdity of her reason.

The bemused look on Ron's face may have been slightly humorous had she not have been recovering from her own embarrassment. "Let me get this straight," He said slowly, eying her curiously. "You walk up about four flights of stairs, ignore all ideas about normal sleeping patterns, and scare the bloody _hell_ out of me because you're _bored_?"

She huffed, trying to regain a sense of dignity. "Yes," She agreed. "That's generally the gist of it."

"And the fact that you're completely nutters is generally the gist of _you_."

"Hm, funny. Apparently, I'm being categorized as 'nutters' by someone who wears Chudley Cannons pyjamas."

"No need to get jealous, Hermione. Just because _you're_ nightgown is too prim and prissy and doesn't reflect of a brilliant Quidditch Team-"

"I honestly cannot believe what possesses you to think that the Chudley Cannons are a brilliant team, Ron."

"Well, _I_ can surely believe that you possess such a limited knowledge about one of the most exhilarating games in the entire Wizarding World."

"I, on the other hand, fully believe that your area of concern only stretches towards Quidditch. That and the fact that you most likely wear matching Chudley Cannons boxers, too."

As if on cue, the bickering pair glanced down towards the waistband of Ron's pyjamas, before blushing furiously. The harmless tint upon Hermione's face became full fledged and Ron's ears turned an alarming shade of red.

Ron cleared his throat a few times, awkwardly glancing around the room once more. "So," He began, not entirely meeting her gaze. "Now what?"

"I guess I should just go back to Ginny's room, then," Hermione responded dejectedly.

He tried to maintain a neutral attitude, but his insides weren't exactly agreeing. "It's kind of a waste to come up here and then go all the way down," Ron said quickly. "You might as well stay... for a little bit..."

He scratched the back of his head and pretended to be nonchalant about the entire situation, but he couldn't help but smile broadly when Hermione timidly shook her head yes.

"Well, where do you want to... you know...?" Ron trailed off once more, settling on gesticulating to finish his question.

Hermione immediately understood the odd displacement of his hands, and the both of them turned to glance at the single, messy bed lying mere inches away from them. Taking the initiative, she pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed it towards the lone pillow Ron used. Whispering _Engorgio_, she propped it up against the headboard before looking at Ron expectantly.

Wrapping his slender fingers around her tiny hand, he led her towards the bed before sitting down on the edge in a gawky fashion. She, on the other hand, clumsily pawed her way through the tangle of sheets before propping herself against the headboard in an upright position. After receiving a somewhat inviting smile from Hermione, he followed suit.

The pair sat in silence for a few, tense moments, as if unsure of what to do. Ron appeared to be having a raging battle inside of his head, made blatant by the fact that his eyes bore apprehensively onto Hermione's hand which lay in her lap. Finally, as if mucking up the courage to do so, he gently placed his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. Hermione blushed at the gesture, but nonetheless returned the favor by resting her head upon his chest. Automatically, his unoccupied hand began to sift its fingers through her coarse locks, marveling at the texture.

"The letters weren't enough," Ron finally spoke, attempting to instill some conversation.

"No, they weren't," Hermione agreed. "I never realized how hard it would be to be away from you."

Ron nodded, remaining quiet for a moment. "I meant what I said in the first letter, Hermione," He said slowly, as if trying out the new words. "I really did miss you like mad, even if it was only for a couple of weeks. It didn't change the fact that I thought about you during every possible moment."

Even though her eyes remained focused on the steady rising and falling of his chest, Hermione was still certain that his ears had turned their trademark red. Squeezing his hand encouragingly, she smiled to herself.

"One thing's for sure, though," Hermione commented, wrapping an arm loosely around Ron's waist. "This is far too surreal to believe."

She felt a few jolts of vibrations against her face as Ron chucked wholeheartedly. "That's for sure," He agreed. "And to think that I wouldn't get even a hundred sodding words with you edgewise. At least, definitely not with Harry and Ginny following you around like there was no bloody tomorrow."

Hermione groaned at the memory, before snuggling her head into the crook of Ron's arm. She giggled softly; the scent off freshly mowed grass and starchy parchment was still evident even when in the middle of the night.

"What's so funny?"

"Aside from the fact that you smell like a lawn mower? Well, nothing much, really."

He pretended to look affronted. "I'm not sure whether I should be checking you into St. Mungo's for comparing me to one of Dad's barmy Muggle toys or not. It's either that or pretending that your observation was a compliment."

"Well, the latter would result in one less row between us."

"As always, love, you're right."

"And Harry _could_ use some sleep."

"And I _could _use some snogging."

"Well, I wouldn't want to deprive you of a necessity, now, would I?"

"That'd be very cruel on your behalf."

She was quite certain that there was no better image compared to Ron's luminous eyes as she tilted her head up. Closing the space between them, he craned his neck, cradling her face gently like a fragile ornament with his rough hands. And as minutes progressed, she became acutely aware of everything. The shaggy fringe of ginger that lightly tickled her cheeks, to the slight shivers Ron emitted as she casually caressed his scarred arms.

As Ron's hands stroked a rhythmic pattern on the small of her back, she continued to bask in the glory of this celestial-like state. Hermione knew very well that stolen moments like these would come at random, what with all of the chaos still alive in the Wizarding World and all the pieces left to pick up.

The threat of imminent danger was still being imposed and it wasn't quite the appropriate time to rejoice just yet. Still, if Ron's actions gave any indication, she was well aware of the fact that she wouldn't face any of this alone. The idea itself was foreign to her; to go about on something difficult alone. After all, being companionless was just something the Golden Trio didn't pertain to.

And this, on its own, was something to be grateful for.

* * *

"Hermione?" Ron murmured, resting his forehead against hers. His breath was heavy and he panted slightly.

"Yeah?" Hermione asked, continuing to gaze unabashedly into his eyes.

"You were wrong, love," He whispered warmly, momentarily closing his eyes. "My area of concern doesn't only relate to Quidditch."

The smile that graced Hermione's face was the brightest Ron had ever seen.

* * *

_A/N: The sentence about four, skinny trees is kind of a reference to _The House on Mango Street_, a book I recently read that was absolutely brilliant._

_I hope I satisfied all with the fluff. I suppose a more emotional reconcilation between Ron and Hermione was in order, but I really was in the mood for some lighthearted banter. Feel free to disagree if you like. _;)

_I know there's an absence of the ominous Voldemort supporter in this chapter, but I wanted to end this on a lighter note. Things will stir up eventually. I promise _:)


	22. Is This It?

There was no doubt whatsoever that she had a dictionary of a brain. Still, Hermione found it hard to use merely _one_ word to sum up the myriad of emotions she was feeling.

Then again, the significant other lying next to her may have had something to do with her broken and incoherent thoughts.

She let out a raspy gasp as Ron planted butterfly kisses against her cheeks, his eyelashes like the fuzzy clocks of a dandelion. Simultaneously, his lips began to produce delicate kisses along her jaw line; the simple gestures sent her into waves of ecstasy.

The pair remained clinging to each other, with her arms wrapped fiercely around his torso and his resting on her shoulders. Still, she felt a bit exasperated with his hesitancy. She _wanted_ him, though not in the sense that most people would assume. And even though the shyness between them had more or less withered away, she still felt as if he was holding back. A type of desire unraveled deep inside as Ron's lips traveled across her neck, and it took practically all the self control that she possessed to avoid attacking him at all costs.

Boldly, she reached for one of his pale, calloused hands and placed it firmly over her heart, waiting to gauge his reaction. When he didn't pull his hand away, opting to spread his fingers lightly instead, she breathed a sigh of relief.

If her heartbeat was steadily rising before, it was definitely imposing a threat to escape out of the confinements of bone and flesh. The thundering organ continued to ram repeatedly against its seclusion, to the point where she could hear the steady rhythm echoing unceremoniously in her ears.

Ron's hand did nothing to ease it, either. It was as if the vital being inside of her was connected to the contour of his palm; it continued to beat erratically.

"Can you... feel it?" Hermione murmured softly, more to herself than Ron. Her voice sounded breathless; it seemed as if she needed an excessive amount of air to convey a few, mere words.

Ron pulled away slowly, steadying himself in front of her. His eyes were impetuous in the moonlight and his cheeks were a startling shade of red. Wordlessly, he wrapped a lanky arm around his waist and captured her hand, unraveling it around his abdomen. He placed it excruciatingly slow upon his own chest, watching her eyes widen at the gesture.

She made a small, incoherent noise as her palm felt the blazing flesh. The tempo of his heart matched hers exactly; the flutter of beats was so volatile that they practically meshed into one, steady rhythm.

Averting her eyes away from his chest, she shyly met his gaze. He continued to stare at her; something unusual was lingering in between the lines of his expression and it compelled her to ask him a question that had been floating in her mind for quite a while.

"Since when?" Hermione's voice was quiet and meek; any octave higher and it would surely shatter the realm of understanding that they had created around them.

Ron did not answer right away, using the moment to glance at his outstretched palm remaining on her chest. "For a long time," Ron finally admitted, suddenly feeling lighter. "At least, far too long for me to contain any more than I have to."

Unbeknownst to them, a raven-haired teenager was watching the entire scene unfolding in front of him with alacrity. A type of fondness overcame him as he caught sight of the pair, palms outstretched and matching smiles etched onto their faces. Beaming sleepily, he closed his eyes slowly, willing for this pivotal moment to be the last thing he'd witness before slumber put him to rest.

* * *

Ginny yawned sleepily as a fleeting feeling pulled her out of her sleep. Turning around restlessly in her bed, she sighed against the feel of her silky sheets and cool pillow, making the idea of voluntary sleep a lot more enticing. In fact, if it wasn't for the glimmer of a chuckle from across the room, she may have succumbed to the idea entirely.

She groggily sat up, flailing her arms dangerously as she searched for her wand. The chortles continued, and she irritably noted that the git producing them made no courteous gesture to muffle them.

As she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes, she caught sight of a globule of black rocking back in forth in the air, giving her a very good idea as to who her morning guest could be. She pushed back the welcoming covers with a grand wave of her arm, though not realizing soon enough the tangle of fabric she had embedded herself in. Surely enough, her bum met the harshly cold floor as she clumsily fell, a mess of sheets still engulfing her.

"Bloody buggering-! Her ramblings were cut short as she wrestled with the covers, attempting to kick them off with the violent thrashes of her legs.

"You have _quite_ the mouth in the morning," Harry said cheerfully, walking towards the witch. He towered before her, arms crossed nonchalantly at the chest as he gave her an amused expression.

"Sod off," Ginny muttered, yanking the covers off ardently. Still, all she managed to do was pull the wrinkled sheets helplessly up to her chin, clearly losing to the knot forming around the lower region of her body.

Harry shrugged. "I could _Accio_ this mess off you, if you'd like."

She looked at him pointedly. "That would be rather nice," Ginny said through gritted teeth.

Harry remained nonplussed by her irritable behavior, still grinning like a loon. "Aren't we tetchy?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "And aren't _we_ incredibly happy? Honestly, it's not healthy to be so chipper at _this_ ungodly hour."

Harry shrugged again, avoiding her comment by fishing for his wand from his back pocket. Whipping it out with a dramatic flourish, he pointed it at Ginny, who promptly held her hands up in mock surrender. "_Accio_ sheets!"

The sheets unraveled magestically, lifting away from Ginny's body but momentarily pulling her along with them. With a muted 'Oof!' she fell softly against the floor, grateful for the absence of the suffocating folds of fabric.

"I believe a thank you is in order?" Harry reminded her, bowing gallantly as she meekly lifted herself up.

She grasped an outstretched hand of his, heaving herself upward and brushing away dust from her bottom. "Really, Harry. You don't normally behave this way." She folded her arms across her chest, eying him curiously.

"Can't a bloke be happy?" Harry's eyes twinkled animatedly behind his spectacles as he paced in an easy manner around the room.

"Can't a bloke enlighten his girlfriend as to _why_ he's happy?"

"I was never really an enlightener, you know."

"Vomit-inducingly cheerful _and_ cheeky," Ginny responded loftily, taking a few steps back to retrieve her wand. "Never mind. For all I know, you probably just had an imaginative dream last night."

He couldn't help himself; he blushed surreptitiously and avoided her gaze. Even without his sight to affirm his relative guess, he could feel her wide smirk radiating off her face and become airborne, dancing around him restlessly.

"Where's Hermione?" Ginny echoed bemusedly, noticing the rumpled bed that was unusually empty. "I knew she was looking forward to reading those classics..." She tapered off, glancing around the room as if to find Hermione curled up on the floor with an opened book. "Still, I'd think that she would be knackered after the festivities yesterday."

Harry grinned toothily. "Well, you know our Hermione. She never stops during a task at hand until she's _completely_ satisfied with the situation."

"And what the sodding hell does _that_ mean?"

Harry made a small clucking noise with his teeth. "Merlin, Ginny. You're lucky your Mum can't hear you. Unless..." He eyed the room conspiratorially. "You don't think she's got sensitive wards up here, do you?"

"That's hardly relevant, Harry."

He huffed teasingly. "Well, it's nice to know that this is the lip I get for trying to look out for you."

Ginny shook her head amusedly, weaving her fingers through her hair in an exasperated manner. "Right, Harry. Have fun with that." She grabbed a jumper from the chair besides her desk, tugging it on in a fluid motion. "Feel free to call me when you've crossed the threshold of sanity. In the meantime, I need to go check on Ron. He promised to service my broomstick first thing in the morning, and Merlin help him if he hasn't already started."

She was halfway out the door before Harry called out in a sing-song voice, "I wouldn't visit him _quite_ yet if I were you."

Ginny wheeled around slowly, her curiosity definitely getting the best of her. "Why, may I ask, should I not?"

Harry shoved his balled fists into the pockets of his pyjamas. "I don't think he'd like it very much if he were so unceremoniously disturbed."

Ginny shifted from one foot to the other, looking incredulous. "Honestly, Harry- you're making it sound like he's having crumpets and tea with Falco Aesalon!"

"I'm fairly certain that there's an absence of crumpets and tea. And Ron's never really fancied Falco, anyway. I doubt he paid attention in History of Magic when we learned about him, anyway."

Ginny snorted affectionately. "I bet Hermione did."

If it was possible, Harry grinned wider. "Funny you should mention her..."

"What do you mean-" Ginny's eyes widened, resembling those of a deer in the headlights. Her mouth phased into a tiny 'O', before going slack completely as the realization dawned on her. "_No bloody way_."

"Yes, yes yes..." Harry continued to murmur, doing a little jig as he circled around the room.

"What do you think they're doing, Harry?" Ginny still looked fairly shocked, positively awed at the thought.

Harry quickly assumed a thinking pose. "At the moment?" He rubbed his thumb and index finger theatrically across his chin, feeling coarse stubble but choosing to ignore the sensation. "I dunno. Probably proclaiming their undying love for each other, I guess. Reciting sappy love poems, counting each other's heartbeats, naming future children... maybe even _making_ the future children." He shivered at that last phrase.

Ginny promptly covered ears, looking as if she wanted to gag last week's Chocolate Frogs. "Blimey, Harry! You can't just go spewing that stuff around- and in the morning, too!"

"I'm sorry!" He cried, shutting his eyes tightly. He pawed at the air blindly, looking thoroughly mortified.

"S'alright," Ginny mumbled hesitantly. She forced a shaky laugh. "At least they finally got to it, right?"

Harry peeked at Ginny from behind his hands tentatively; his beaming smile was visible through the slivered openings of his fingers. "I can release that breath I've been holding for the past seven years now, Gin."

"The bickering's bound to decrease exponentially."

"If we're lucky."

Suddenly, a loud crash ricocheted through a faraway part of the Burrow, and Harry and Ginny instantly looked up toward the ceiling. A type of resonated, muffled sound was blatant, followed by a familiar shriek, shouting 'Ronald!' vehemently.

Ginny sighed, turning to Harry once more. "I guess not."

* * *

Rodolphus stood in the middle of the ornate sitting room, barely taking in his lush surroundings. An odd type of draft circulated around him, sending slight, edgy chills down his spine. His wand felt firm and promising in his dress robes' pocket- he stoically realized that it was the only threshold he felt fully comfortable in and connected to.

He walked aimlessly around a grand coffee table, nearly colliding with its pointy side. Avoiding a close blow to the knee, he staggered slightly; like a chain reaction, everything fell apart, including him.

He stumbled onto the nearest davenport ungracefully, grumbling under his breath as he did so. It was too soft and plush for his liking; there was no doubt that it was lavish and fit, but he found that he did not particularly care for items of that nature.

Bitterly, he recalled a time when he _did_. The era seemed like ages ago- when life was warped into something glamorous and luxurious, though there was dirty work to wholeheartedly participate in. He remembered the entities of his old lifestyle; he made a disgusted grunt as he conjured images of all the balls he passively attended. The people he was required to talk to; the fabrics and wines and company he was supposed to find appealing.

He wouldn't have it any other way, of course. It was not his intention to dilute his views and make them impure. Still, he often wondered why all of these mundane tasks were so irritatingly _important_. Wasn't the sinister ink on his left wrist enough proof of his loyalties? What about his comrades? The lovely, brazen woman who graced his arm at every fathomable function; didn't she account for anything?

"I don't know," A crisp voice said, entering the room briskly.

Rodolphus looked up, mildly surprised. Suddenly, his eyes became fearful. "What do you mean?" He asked sharply.

The man looked wary, as if this had happened several times before. "I _mean_ that I don't know when she'll be returning to her own, filthy home." He wrinkled his nose as if a bad taste was occupying his mouth. When Rodolphus still continued to stare blankly, he sighed. "Don't you remember? You asked me to confirm when she would leave the pitiful outlet the Weasel's call a house?"

"Right," Rodolphus mumbled, feeling asinine.

"Yardley passed on the information," He said, sitting steadily on a hard-backed chair. "He saw the little oaf at the Ministry yesterday."

"Spread my deepest regards, will you?" Rodolphus responded, his tone heading towards the brink of sarcasm.

"Resolve your piss poor attitude, will _you_?" The man said swiftly, equal in tone.

Rodolphus sighed, fighting the urge to smack his palms against his forehead. He lowered his gaze, focusing on the shiny hide of his shoes. "Rabastan," He growled, his head still bent down. "Don't get shirty with me, brother."

Rabastan's eyes momentarily softened, for lack of a better word, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right now is not the right time, Rodolphus."

"It isn't," He agreed morosely. "They're all too well protected. They need to be spread apart."

"Habitually, though. A manipulated, steady routine; one that makes all of them the most vulnerable."

Rodolphus grimaced. They had discussed this angle of their confrontation several, unbearable times, each snip of conversation leaving him more and more dissatisfied. He didn't want to wait, but he still wanted to do it right. He wanted to destroy them all, but he knew that he needed to discuss his options of destruction more carefully.

Abruptly, he stood up, finding the room far too suffocating for his liking. "When this is all over, Rabastan," He began uncertainly, fighting to find the right words, "I want to find peace at the end. Nothing more, nothing less."

* * *

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to The Strokes (for some odd reason which I do not care to elaborate on), and Rupert Grint for his brilliant performance in _Driving Lessons_, which, incidentally, was an excellent movie._

_Rodolphus is the man I've been referring to for the past few chapters. Most of you guessed that it was him all along, although one reviewer suggest 'Grindelwald' at one point._

_How this is possible, I do not know. _;)

_I love the hits and the emails informing me that my story has been added to your 'Favorite Stories' and 'Story Alerts' lists._

_Still, reviews always make my day, which is something fulfilling all on its own. _:)


	23. A Train Moving Too Fast

The shaggy curtains of the willow tree hid them from the entire world as they settled onto the fuzzy grass, contemplating in their ideal peace. A cool breeze rolled through the hilltops, sending shivers down the wildflowers' stems.

Ron was restless. He did not have the luxury of Hermione's undivided attention; she was currently reading a thick, wrinkled-looking paperback religiously, eyes wandering stealthily as she turned the pages.

His head rested upon her lap, with his lanky legs stretched out languidly in front of him. The shirt that graced his torso hung limply at his sides, giving him the impression of a starved, young man. He softly snorted to himself- the notion of being emaciated was ridiculous all on its own, what with Mrs. Weasley's abundance of food at every interlude.

Tentatively, he lifted a hand and brought it towards a few strands of hair that rested a couple of inches beneath her shoulders. With his thumb and index finger, he traced the coarse patterns softly, shamelessly marveling at the texture. Giving it a gentle tug, he matched gazes with Hermione as she looked at him inquisitively.

"Yes?" Hermione inquired bemusedly, marking the text she had just reached with her thumb.

Ron shrugged innocently, grinning at her. "Nothing, love. Just wondering when you'd put the book down."

"Maybe when I'm finished with it?" Hermione said saucily, arching an eyebrow. Chuckling to herself a bit, she returned her attention to her copy of _Mythology_.

"How about in thirty seconds?" He responded in a similar tone, carelessly pulling the book out of her grasp.

Groaning, she pried it away from his long fingers. "This book happens to be interesting, Ron."

He pulled it away once more, tossing it lightly some feet away in the wide clearing. "'Books' and 'interesting' aren't meant to be in the same sentence, Hermione."

"And why is that, Ron?" Hermione asked, her gaze sharp and quizzical. She glanced forlornly at the disproportioned book, before scowling at Ron. "Of course, you can't really blame me for doubting _that_ remark, considering that you've never picked up a book on your own accord."

Ron waved a hand dismissively. "Those are merely details. Besides, _Flying With The Cannons_ is most definitely-"

His comment was interrupted by an audible snort, courtesy of Hermione. "It is most definitely _not_ a decent piece of literature."

"Regardless," Ron remarked distractedly. "Still, you can't deny the fact that 'books' and 'interesting' are complete opposites. It's practically a sodding oxymoron!"

This time, Hermione raised both eyebrows, choosing to ignore his choice of words. "Wow, Ron. If I wasn't here to witness it, I would never believe that you would know the definition of an oxymoron _and_ use it properly in a sentence. Bravo." Patting him sarcastically on his head, she began to shrug him off her lap in order to retrieve her book. He deliberately pressed himself against the contours of her folded legs, not budging once as she desperately tried to push him away.

"Is there a problem?" Ron asked in a false voice, smiling cheekily.

Hermione grimaced, before forcing a sickeningly sweet smile upon her face. "Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, love. Aside from you being a total and complete prat." When his expression remained nonplussed, she sighed loudly. "Who's to say that opposites don't belong together?"

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Are we still talking about books that you claim are interesting?" The glare he received from the bushy-haired witch prompted him to tread lightly on this rickety conversation. "I dunno, Hermione. It's just hard, you know? Like they're on opposite sides of the U-bend. Fire and ice, oil and water... Sometimes, it just doesn't work."

A glassy expression overcame Hermione's face, and Ron shrugged in an awkward manner when she didn't respond immediately. He took this reaction as his cue to recover the book he so unceremoniously threw.

She watched him fondly as he wanly walked towards the fluttering pages, lean legs moving unaccustomedly. Running her hand lightly over her hair, she pushed the restless locks behind her ears. Gradually, the response came forth from, passing over the confinements of her lips. They were inaudible, so much that the wind may have carried them away if it wanted to.

"Sometimes, it does."

* * *

The Burrow steadily became a haven of chaos, with a mass of people sitting around the precarious table. Dishes were being passed around, with the occasional lone fork snatching a roast potato or two, and the stealthy, ongoing mash fight between George and Teddy. Jean and Jack surveyed the disorder with chortles and looks of disbelief over the heap of food Molly had set before them, shoveling it down rather quickly in order to avoid another rendition of "Eat!" on the woman's behalf.

To her credit, though, it _was_ rather delicious.

Ron and Hermione managed to sit next to each other, much to their surprise. Everyone else took the seating predicament lightly, with matching amused expressions etched upon their faces. Much to the chagrin of Ron, his brothers found that taking the mickey out of the youngest Weasley was the only way to handle the delicate situation.

Bill grinned wolfishly on several occasions throughout the night, often cuddling with Fleur freely at the dinner table while making wild gesticulations for Ron to proceed in a similar fashion with Hermione. The French witch scowled playfully at her husband several times, but played along as well, winking at Hermione and flashing a smile in Ron's direction.

Somewhere along the lines of the unnoticed food fight, George had persuaded Teddy to pucker his lips in the direction of the young couple. The two of them glanced subtly at Ron and Hermione, pursing their lips in an exaggerated fashion and emitting strangled noises. While the adults chose to ignore this childish spectacle, Ginny continued to roll her eyes periodically while Harry grinned heartily, feeling much more lighthearted than usual.

"Ignore them," Hermione whispered brazenly as she primly cut a piece of her Cornish pasty. With her free hand, she placed Ron's furtively upon her thigh, stroking it in a comforting manner while enduring the playful teasing. He responded as enthusiastically as possible, running his thumb gently over the profile of her knuckles. She smiled shyly in return, earning another round of gestures and catcalls in the process.

With astounding finality, she realized that she would delightfully endure all the teasing in the world- as long as she was given the privelige to freely comfort and touch and _love_ Ron in return.

* * *

The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence, with occasional bouts of touching rhythmically matched with the clinking of forks against the oval-shaped plates. Gradually, Hermione mustered the courage to ask a question that had been shuffling uneasily throughout her thoughts for the better part of the day.

"So, are Ron and Hermione opposites, too?" She asked casually, as if discussing something mundane.

Her bold question threw him off guard completely, causing him to momentarily choke on the sip of pumpkin juice he had just taken. Regaining a calm demeanor, he managed to spew out an answer. "In one way or another, yeah," He answered meekly.

"And by this you mean..."

Ron tugged at the neckline of his jumper uncomfortably, summoning the courage to look her in the eye. "I dunno how to put it in the most thoughtful way, Hermione." He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sensing the hesitancy in his tone, she placed a comforting hand over his. "I don't have some inevitable demand for you to be thoughtful, Ron."

He grinned. "Right, because someone has to balance in lieu of the prissy things that come out of your mouth."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Ron, because all of the unrefined things you say enlighten me to no end."

His tone was equally sarcastic. "I doubt that anyone can achieve the mere _level_ of unrefined things I say, Hermione. The fact that you openly appreciate it only makes it more fulfilling."

"_Anyway_," Hermione said, "you were saying..."

"Right," Ron replied briskly, opting now to focus on his hands. He forced a chuckle. "_I_ was saying." He stared off aimlessly into space for a few moments, wringing his hands in his lap. As if receiving the end of something enigmatic, he stretched his body in a catlike fashion towards the nightstand, precariously placing his bottle of Butterbeer on the corner of it.

"I've never really believed in that whole 'opposites attract' rubbish," Ron began airily, waving his hand in dismissal. "It just doesn't make sense that two people with completely different backgrounds and personalities can compliment each other so easily. Merlin knows it's why you and Malfoy never got together." He shuddered at the thought.

"A hopelessly clueless Gryffindor could have something to do with it, as well," Hermione commented.

"Besides that," Ron remarked indifferently, though the crimson blush was evident on his ears. "Still, there are always those two nutters that meet for the first time when a midget with glasses is born on Uranus' seventh moon, or some other nonsense like that."

"I'm guess that would be us?" Hermione asked dryly.

"Hush, you," Ron said darkly. "I'm just trying to get through this epiphany without sounding like a complete pansy, mind you."

Hermione stifled a laugh under the pretense of a cough as he continued. "Right, so now that you've let the kneazle out of the bag..." He shot her a pointed look. Gradually, though, a nostalgic expression overcame his features. "I think that everyone back at Hogwarts that we were a train collision in the making, or a badly brewed potion just _waiting_ to explode. I can't say that I blame those poor sods, though. We were quite a riot." He grinned at her. "The point is, we made things work. That doesn't mean that we don't row, though. Hell, I don't think I can go through an entire _day_ without rowing with you. Whether it's because I manage to swear every five minutes, or when you're being quite the swot, or even in regards to a sodding _book_. Still, we manage to throw every undeniable difference out the bloody window and make up for it. We've been doing that for eight years, and I'll be damned if we can't do it for another two hundred." Finished with his tale, he released a take of breath dramatically, waiting for Hermione's initial reaction.

"Two hundred is a bit of a stretch..." Hermione trailed off as she caught Ron's lips in a sanguine kiss. To say that he was startled by her enthusiastic response to his narrative would be an understatement, and she chuckled slightly into his mouth as his lips gradually molded into hers.

With alacrity, she noted that he had quite the way with his mouth, both verbally _and_ physically, when he set his mind to it.

For a better part of the night, he did just that.

* * *

_A/N_: _Gradually, these slow-as-molasses chapters will speed up quite a bit. Coming up, there are going to be mentions of Hogwarts (I've already made my decision regarding those who are returning and those who aren't), Andromeda's relationships with her respective portraits, Harry's awkward moments as a Godfather, and the imminent plans of Rodolphus Lestrange._

_On a lighter note, there will also be an abundance of 'Ron and Hermione moments.' _:)

Mythology_ is a book by Edith Hamilton that is a personal favorite of mine. _

_Also, I plan on changing my penname in the next few days, or so. So just keep this story's title in mind, because 'stargirlweasley' will cease to exist, eventually. If you want a general overview as to what my options are, then feel free to PM me._

_Comments on what you like, didn't like, or desperately wish to read are always appreciated. _:)


	24. Ize

_You're the prettiest, smartest captain of the team._

_I love you more than being seventeen._

* * *

The winding, country lane stretched on for what seemed like miles, and the sun was persistent. Gruffly, Ginny rolled up the sleeves of her cotton jumper, sighing contentedly as a delicate breeze cooled her arms. She was returning from a swift trip to the Owlery in Ottery St. Catchpole, surreptitiously disguised as a run down inn. Of course, the option of using Nougat was always promising, but the owl had become unhealthily attached to Ron and Hermione. When she wasn't out hunting or resting after a particularly long flight, she was constantly nipping at the young couple's fingers and receiving affectionate pats in return.

The scarce, lingering passerby had eyed her strangely as she nonchalantly slipped through the charmed cracks and shabby-looking doorway, a crisp envelope in one hand and a beaded bag in the other. The letter was for Luna Lovegood, a friend that she had not heard from in quite a while. Only Neville had a remotely intelligent guess as to where she was- a clinic in Bucharest to heal her war wounds. The prolonged months as Voldemort's captive had taken its toll on the young witch; so much that her Xenophilius Lovegood thought that it would be best to take her to the unfamiliar hospital in Romania for a slow recovery.

Ginny let out an exasperated noise at the thought; from the bewildered and slightly amused looks of Neville, she had appropriately guessed that the hospital in particular was most likely filled with Nargles and dormant Crumple-Horned Snorkacks among other things. Still, she felt a familiar fondness for her eccentric friend. As she neared the lazy hills surrounding the Burrow, she desperately hoped that her letter would find its way to the Lovegoods.

Gradually, she could make out the prominent stretches of land that enveloped the Burrow, and the crooked tower itself. A warm feeling enveloped her both internally and externally, and she did nothing to stifle it. Though she always considered the worn home a safe haven, the last few months had given her a rushed, undeniable feeling of emancipation; a feeling that was blissfully different from the unpredictable fear of the looming war.

She swiftly came towards the creaky gate enclosing the stretches of field; without so much as a backwards glance, Ginny lifted the latch with her index finger and withdrew from the outside world and into her very own sanctuary.

* * *

George removed his wand from the pocket of his robes, twirling it slowly between his fingers for a moment. He seemed to be oblivious to the blatant crowds circling Diagon Alley hungrily, and he did not pay much attention to anything else. With a heavy sigh, he jabbed at the lock beneath the doorknob in front of him with his wand, muttering _Alohomora._

A type of clicking noise became evident, and he pocketed his wand as the palm of his hand found the curve of the knob. Wearily, he pressed against it just so, as if getting scalded by the cool metal was a possibility. The door creaked somewhat ominously as he entered a dusty, dimly lit room.

_"Lumos_," George said softly, holding his wand away at arm's length. He circled the room uncertainly a few times.

The large space was barren and gave no impression of a successful joke shop. The walls that were once painted a blinding shade of magenta looked sullen and dull, peeling in some places. The high stacks of Skiving Snackboxes were no longer precariously positioned throughout the shop. Instead, they were packed away roughly in groups of boxes, scattered messily in neglected corners.

George swallowed a forming lump in his throat audibly. Everything was painfully different.

Wheezing slightly, he walked some feet towards the left and kneeled onto the penetrating floor, fingering a clumsily sealed box in front of him. With shaking hands, he carefully lifted the flaps, cradling them as they bended backwards. An impressive layer of dust obscured anything beyond itself, and George blew on it lightly.

The specks of dust spasmodically separated in a rash manner, dancing around the narrow beam of light emitting from the wand. They circled George's head incessantly, and he waved at them halfheartedly, willing for them to dissolve elsewhere rather than inches away from his face.

He rearranged his body into a more comfortable position, opting to sit on his bum, instead. Crossing his legs Indian style, he clasped both of his hands into a threatening fist, perching his chin upon it. With defeat, he realized that he could not go about reopening the shop on his own. He had merely accomplished entering the store itself without breaking down completely, but the box still remained half-opened at his feet. He noted this with a submissive feeling of anger, and kicked it away impassively with the toe of his foot with not much regard towards anything else.

The specks continued to whirl whimsically, dancing to the train of thought unraveling within his contemplating mind.

* * *

Hermione settled onto a small davenport in the living room, unsteadily holding a mug of warm tea and a massive book. She meticulously placed her cup on the mahogany end table to the right as she eased herself onto the lush sofa, molding upon it. The week continued to trickle by slowly like the crumbs of sand in an unrelenting hourglass. Still, she managed to keep herself busy, what with dividing her leisurely time between chaotic afternoons at the Burrow and cozy nights with her parents in Dorset.

Tonight was not an entirely different case; as dusk eased itself among the sky, Hermione basked in the peace and quiet, appreciating it entirely. Gradually, she began to relax, taking periodic sips of her lukewarm tea and absorbing the large text in front of her. Naturally, she wanted to become reacquainted with the spells and charm work she had neglected the previous year among the other subjects she sorely missed. And while Ron (and generally everyone else) would refer to her as absolutely mental for actually enjoying detailed Wizarding accounts about duels of the 17th century, she would merely brush them off without a glance.

Primly, she sipped the remains of her tea while simultaneously turning a wrinkled page. The text was more or less an ancient blur of ink, but her keen eyes had grown accustomed to it.

A tapping on the window pane on the other side of the room gradually became evident, though she did not notice it at first. When it became incessant, she sighed loudly and heaved her book onto the armrest, grumbling to herself at the disruption. A tawny owl was visible beyond the sheen of the glass, with ruffled feathers and a bewildered expression.

"You're not Nougat..." Hermione muttered distractedly as she allowed the owl entrance. It stuck its leg out on its own accord; a thick, crisp piece of parchment was tied to it.

"Ta," She said involuntary, retrieving the letter swiftly.

The owl hooted softly before shuffling its feather, indicating flight. Hermione gave an understanding nod, and it left just as quickly as it arrived.

She eyed the letter with interest, turning it in her hands a few times until she caught sight of the print on the front. It wasn't the fact that it was addressed to her that initially shocked her. It was only the familiar wax seal gracing the back that made her stomach clench and turn towards the empty fireplace.

* * *

Ron leaned against the kitchen counter, messily eating a sandwich he had hastily prepared. The night was quiet and still, and all were left to their own devices. His Mum and Dad had gradually disappeared from the crowd earlier in the evening, though he wasn't too eager to learn their whereabouts - or what they were doing. Fred, Charlie, and Percy had retired to their respective bedrooms, while Bill and Fleur had returned to Shell Cottage for the night. Ron couldn't blame them; he'd gleefully accept any alone time with Hermione that he could possibly get.

Wearily, he glanced towards the ceiling, as if expecting for his eyes to bore through the prominent cracks. Like the others, Ginny and Harry had seized the opportunity of spending time together. Like the others, they were completely oblivious to Ron.

It wasn't that he necessarily minded. On the contrary, the silence was so compatible with his ears that he practically welcomed it. There was something very promising about the minutes he had to himself, but it didn't relieve him entirely of what everyone else was doing. It was as if his mind was contemplating in too many ways; one bit favorable towards the lull, another desperately wishing for something else.

To bluntly put it, it was driving him mad.

He polished off the last bit of his sandwich and quietly walked out of the kitchen, as if avoiding the possibility of shattering the tranquility. The only sounds audible in the room were from the persistent buzzing of the grating lights, and an informal sound coming from the fireplace. He abruptly left the threshold, walking cautiously towards the grate.

Hermione stood in the center, sputtering a bit as she grimaced at the slightly singed ends of her hair. Checking to make sure that the letter was safely tucked away in her pocket, she let out a squeal of surprise at the sight of Ron so close to her.

"Ron..." Hermione trailed off, the reprimanding lost in his solid embrace. She hugged him back just as securely, but found it uncomfortable standing in the hearth. "As much as I like this, Ron, would you mind letting me out of the fireplace?" She pulled back so that her eyes met his, giving him a teasing smile.

He returned the gesture, stepping a lanky stride back and helping her out of the hearth. Hand in hand, they walked towards the informal sitting room, choosing a cushiony sofa simultaneously. Their fingers began to automatically intertwine themselves and the side of her head found the flesh of his shoulder in an impromptu tango. His arm snaked around her neck on its own accord and his spindly fingers began to weave restlessly through her hair.

Hermione found her heart beating ragingly once more as she became of aware of the close proximity between them. Every touch, caress, sigh of relief; she became acutely aware of it all. Still, the evident lump in her pocket inadvertently recovered some of her previous tension, and she willed with every fiber within her to forget the damned letter for the time being.

The moment was far too precious to shatter with a delicate ribbon of their tumultuous past.

* * *

Rodolphus brushed the lone dust away from the knees of his trousers as he stood up. He glanced casually around the room, observing every corner he had mercilessly infiltrated. He grimaced as he realized how much this quarter had become a shadow of its former self. The air of elegance and superiority it once maintained was blatantly deteriorating, with the tarnished relics adorning the walls and the subtle traces of neglect.

The souvenirs and tokens that had meant something of great important to him no longer graced the walls like trophies. Instead, they lay meticulously in an antique box colored in a startling shade of silver. The box was an intricate gift given by a distant in-law, who clearly harbored an unhealthy desire for his family motto. _Toujours Pur_ crawled along the top, glistening in an elegant scrawl. Beneath the mantra, a curved knob appeared daunting and slightly sinister; the carved ridges resembled the freshly shed skin of a snake.

Wordlessly, he removed his wand from the deep well of his pocket and summoned the box towards himself. Rodolphus caught it swiftly with one, gaunt arm, and cradled it like a fragile newborn as he struggled to gain an able grip around its slippery edges. He managed to balance the shrunken holder upon his forearm, wrapping the beginnings of his wrist and hand possessively around the top. Involuntarily, his nimble fingers provoked the eerie knob, and its loose hinges allowed for it to open easily.

He gasped as his eyes interlocked with the large frame that brazenly rested at the very top above all other keepsakes. His eyes bore through the cracked glass, hungrily absorbing every aspect of the woman enhancing the photograph.

She looked like a creature only one would find in the deepest streams of his or her dreams. The features of her promising face gave both the impression of imminent beauty and eternal damnation. She looked haughty and caught off guard; the photo was like a broken record player, repeating the same scene over and over with the same amount of zeal.

The gown that clung to her body was regal and elegant. It was something she was born to wear; a piece of priceless silk that was carefully crafted to suit every curve and crevice that only added to the wonders of her stature. A string of pearls dignified her neck dominatingly, and its twin earrings fell from the lobes of her tender ears. Her hair, like the beginnings of a threaded, black cloak, boldly contrasted with her pale complexion.

In the midst of wandering unsteadily, her piercing spheres of the most noble black found his, and he sucked in his breath once more. The moment dissolved as quickly as it was brought forth, and the scene replayed itself once more.

Bellatrix collectively wandering through the thresholds of her own world. Bellatrix finding herself in a confrontation with the pesky camera lens. Bellatrix playing her aura of superiority even through her fit of surprise. Bellatrix finding him through the barriers of glass and another universe.

Bellatrix was gone, and with tranquilized fury, he discerned once again that someone _had_ to pay.

* * *

_A/N: This is my first chapter under my new pen name, 'Your Valensi.' Huzzah to new beginnings!_

_Thank you to everyone who left a review for the last chapter; it meant a lot to me and to say that I was merely overwhelmed by all the feedback would most definitely be an understatement._

_Also, if anyone is reading or has read a good Ron/Hermione story, I'd really appreciate it if you gave me a heads up. I've been looking for a decent multi-chaptered story for ages, but to no avail. :(_

_Other story suggestions are encouraged, as well. :)_


	25. Somewhere In Between

Ron sidled along the jagged stitching of the davenport, cradling Hermione as he panted softly. His breath smoldered like the dying tongues of fire as he clutched the smooth hill of her hip, running his fingers over the bony jut. He fell from the surreal high just as quickly as he had achieved the celestial state, taking note of everything as his senses refocused once more. Her hair was a gnarled, soft mess against his shoulder and it tickled the junction of his neck slightly. He smiled softly to himself, burying his nose in the mass of her curls and inhaling deeply.

"You're sniffing me," Hermione mumbled. Ron beamed fondly, practically intuiting the current arch of her eyebrow.

"Well," Ron whispered back, lightly grazing the shell of her ear with his teeth, "I can't help it if you smell so damn good."

She sighed contentedly, settling with his reply as she stretched out her legs in front of her. Crossing them at the ankle, she wiggled her toes, suddenly feeling very stiff. "Sorry love," Hermione yawned slightly as she dragged her arms above her head in relief, pulling at them to stifle the tension. The envelope, now wrinkled and somewhat bent, fell from the haven of her pocket, though she was oblivious to it.

"S'okay," Ron answered, regretfully snaking his arm away from the nape of her neck. Opting to sit back instead, he busied himself with (as he called it) enjoying the view, though he cringed somewhat at the thought of sounding like a letch.

Hermione continued to stretch distinctly, the tips of her fingers supposedly grasping at something high in the air as her chest rose considerably and her back formed a visible dip. A shockwave of warmth was evident, dancing around her ribcage and cutting through her elbows. She could feel Ron's penetrating gaze boring through the bare nape of her neck, causing her to blush and hunch her shoulders all at the same time. Smiling to herself, she turned her torso so that she was facing him.

"Care to explain?"

Ron shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, though something mischievous was evident among the pretense of innocence. "Nothing, Hermione. I'm just taking advantage of what's being handed to me on a silver platter." Then, as in afterthought, he added, "If the shoe fits..."

Despite her prim act, she laughed loudly, only guffawing more at the bemused expression on his face. She reached out a small hand, caressing Ron's cheek lightly with it. "You're absolutely adorable; did you know that?"

He smirked. "Tell me something I don't know."

She returned her hand to her own face, pretending to think deeply. "Well, for starters, you have absolutely _no_ clue when it comes to using an idiom _correctly_ in a sentence. Particularly 'if the shoe fits.'

Ron rolled his eyes playfully. "Come off it, Hermione. I made perfect sense."

Hermione snorted. "Oh, Ron. Nobody likes a person who runs his mouth without knowing what in the name of Merlin he's saying."

"Are you accusing me of something?"

Now it was her turn to smirk. "If the shoe fits, wear it."

He waved his hand aloofly. "Idioms are barmy, anyway. I mean, which nutter came up with 'birthday suit?'" He scoffed.

Hermione grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know..." She trailed off as she traced her fingers across her wrist for a hair tie, though her efforts were futile. "I could've sworn I was wearing a hair tie earlier today," Hermione said miserably as she gathered her long tendrils of hair at the base of her head. Sighing audibly, she stood up. "No matter. I'll just borrow one from Ginny."

"Hang on, love," Ron said in a muffled voice, bending down from his place at the davenport. He reached for the heavy parchment he had just set his eyes on, beckoning for her to take it. "I think you dropped this."

Her hair fell limply from its makeshift bun as her hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes widened quite a bit, though she attempted to hide it; still, the letter was bound to come up. Taking a shallow breath, she knew it was time to come forward about it. "About that..."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised and eyes concerned. "Is everything alright, Hermione? You seem a bit off." Their fingertips touched briefly as she took the envelope, smoothing it a bit on her thigh as she returned to her spot on the davenport next to Ron. Her eyes remained downcast on the distinct, starchy parchment, before she lifted them in order to look at Ron. "I received this today, Ron."

His gaze traveled towards the object she held defiantly in her hands; any mention of scrawl or seal was hidden beneath her fingers. A notion overcame him and he suddenly felt very sick; judging by Hermione's demeanor, the letter could be from_ anyone_. And anyone could refer to some smarmy git like Viktor Krum, or a rogue Death Eater with an entire cabinet dedicated to death threats. He gulped loudly before asking, "Who's the letter from?"

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione responded flatly.

"How in the name of Merlin's most saggiest Y-fronts is that a bad thing?" Ron asked, inwardly berating himself for sounding so insensitive.

"You're right," Hermione admitted, though her tone did not withhold a shred of emotion. "It _isn't_ a bad thing." She continued to turn the envelope in her hands, the pad of her thumb feeling the cool edge of the wax seal. Her keen eyes recognized the tidy, slanted print gracing the seal; _Draco Dormiens Numquam Titillandus._ A wave of nostalgia became apparent, making her feel like she was eleven years old all over again. The only difference, of course, was the befuddled redhead sitting by her side, gazing at her forlornly and not wasting an effort to hide it.

"It's an invitation," Hermione began uncertainly, "to return to the school as a guest student. Of course, that's only a term of formality. I'd be like any other student, except with the title of an impromptu Eighth year."

"Do you want to go back?" Ron asked tenderly, avoiding her eyes.

"I don't know," Hermione whispered, somewhat perturbed by the change of atmosphere in the room. "Would you like to go back? If you had the chance?"

He didn't answer right away, choosing to grasp both of her hands tightly in his, neglecting the letter entirely. Stroking the soft, milky skin, he duly noted yet another feminine quality about Hermione. It wasn't that he was completely unaware of the docility that she possessed, but these types of realizations typically came in increments. Blushing surreptitiously, he remembered vaguely the way she looked on the night of the Yule Ball. It was then and there that he realized the beauty that she possessed; the beauty that was so heavily concealed by her thick textbooks and his oblivious eyes.

Gradually, he'd catch more glimpses, taking note of them meticulously as if trying to stamp the image in his mind for an eternity. He recalled the warm days at Hogwarts during which Hermione would tug at the stiff fabric of her collar irritably, exposing delicate flesh and forcibly allowing his eyes _and_ mind to wander a great deal. Her calves, which were normally hidden by black robes, often emerged during the summertime, and he could only imagine how smooth and silky they were. There was the intimate appeal of her eyes, slaughtering every cliché as soon as he caught sight of them. They were warm and almost auburn; more importantly, though, they seemed to sparkle whenever they sought his own, emitting a type of passion that only she was capable of possessing. And he was quite certain that all of these qualities were a Godsend at the very least.

Ron looked up, not surprised to find Hermione staring at him intently, patiently waiting for an answer. "Would I go back?" He repeated dully. "No Hermione, I don't think so." He felt ashamed, of course; his blatant vulnerabilities made him feel pathetic in her eyes. "Oh, Merlin. You probably think I'm a spineless jerk..." He murmured this last part, knowing that the barrier guarding all of his weaknesses would not crumble for Hermione.

Unfortunately, she heard him. Abruptly, she brought her hand to his chin, forcing it upwards. "Look at me," Hermione said brazenly, forcing his sullen gaze to meet her blazing eyes. "Now give me one valid reason as to why I would even refer to you as a spineless jerk for even a mere second!"

He felt self-conscious under her heated gaze. "I'm not as strong as you or Harry," Ron choked, his voice becoming raspy. "I'm not strong-willed and the most stupid things put me down... Face it, Hermione. I'm just the sod that follows the two of you around and provides pathetic comic relief."

"_Honestly_," Hermione growled in frustration, "How could you possibly think that, Ron? It's absolutely absurd!"

"Is it?" Ron asked tetchily, becoming fully aware of the dangerous territory they were verbally heading towards. "So I suppose the fact that I left you guys in the middle of bloody nowhere all because I was _hungry_ was absurd too, eh? It was all for a barrel of laughs, right?" For added effect, he laughed bitterly. "Well here's some overdue news for you, Hermione. I'm the weak one out of all three of us. It's why I never contribute handy spell work or helpful facts. It's why I'm the most ridiculed, and it definitely explains why the locket affected me the most."

Hermione visibly stiffened at the mention of the Horcrux, realizing that this wasn't merely another translation of Ron's apparent self-pity; in lieu of something far more sinister. "I don't mean to pry, Ron, but something tells me that you're hiding something about that piece of rubbish."

Ron laughed bitterly once more; it sounded hollow and unfamiliar. "What's there to hide? That bloody thing made everything so painfully obvious, didn't it?"

The gears in Hermione's mind began to turn; obscured images of Harry returning from a nighttime escapade with Ron in tow conjured themselves; Hermione could recall not even a sign of the wretched Horcrux. It was odd, of course, that the locket was destroyed the night that Ron returned from his solitary trek. And although she could not blame him for feeling so optimistic, it was even stranger that Ron had considerably brightened from the days that followed.

"Something happened that night," She said matter-of-factly, though there was an underlying accusation in her voice. "Something happened, and you and Harry kept it from me."

To his credit, Ron looked sheepish. "It wasn't worth mentioning."

"If it harmed you in any way, shape, or form, then I'd say it was very much worth mentioning, Ronald," Hermione countered sharply. "I don't care if it bruises your ego or some rubbish like that; it's perfectly acceptable for someone to want to comfort you."

"It's not that I don't want your comfort," Ron said quietly. "But avidly discussing an inanimate object that used every single one of your weaknesses against you isn't necessarily equivalent to a walk in a meadow." He heard a stifled gasp from her direction, and had to forcibly restrain himself from smacking his forehead, knowing that he had fallen for her tactic hook, like, and sinker. There was no choice; he had to come clean.

"Hermione," Ron began tentatively, "I'm not going to lie; things were pretty bad that night. I didn't want to worry you, and I didn't have much of a choice when I returned. You were all but hexing my bits off, and I wasn't going to inflict any other diversion upon you while you were in such a state. The locket is still dominant, of course, but everyday with you counters any claim it ever made. You need to understand that."

"What did it say?" Hermione whispered, giving him a watery smile.

He took a deep breath. "A lot of things," Ron admitted. "It told me that I wasn't good enough... that Harry would've been a better son... that I was more or less incompetent... unimportant..." His voice became hoarse as he continued to speak in broken fragments. "When Harry and I found the sword of Gryffindor, he told me to destroy the locket while he held it open. But things didn't exactly go according to plan."

"Oh God, Hermione, it was like looking into some twisted mirror. All of my fears were being proclaimed by this... _thing_, and all I could do was listen. Harry was yelling, telling me to stab the thing, that it was lying, but I couldn't do anything but stand there and listen. And it continued to shout, obviously feeding off my fear. It told me that I was foolish to think that you and Harry would miss me... stupid for coming back... hopeless, a sorry excuse... but that was only the beginning."

"Towards the end, these two figures came out of the locket. They were like crude caricatures, all intertwined around each other..."

"Who were they, Ron?" Hermione asked, looking mildly horrified.

"You," He said flatly. "And Harry. The caricature of you mainly did all the talking. The other one mainly just cackled at all the appropriate places. You said that you would never like me... that no one _ever_ could... and then you kissed Harry."

"_What_?"

He nodded. "And that's when something in me snapped, you know? I couldn't take it anymore. That was the breaking point, and the locket ceased to exist after that." Though his tale ended on a lighter note, he still sounded glum. "Even after Harry reassured me somewhat awkwardly, I could only see the two of you wrapped around each other like that. Hell, I've been seeing just _that_ for a long time. I always thought you liked him. I mean, who wouldn't? He's rich and famous and practically every girl at Hogwarts was fawning—"

He was cut off abruptly by Hermione, who roughly grabbed his face and pressed her lips against his fiercely. It wasn't one of the delicate, heated kisses that they had been sharing for the past few weeks, but one of urgency and something desperate. The two were practically attached to one another; only the superficial barrier of clothing truly separated them. She continued to work her fingers through his hair, allowing her hands to travel down the hollows of his back and feeling the twitching muscles that moved beneath her light touch. His hands rested precariously against the small of her back; a sure sign of the beginnings of their intimate relationship. Awkwardness no longer served as an unwelcomed presence as they resumed their tantalizing explorations of each other. There were no visible signs of noses brushing against each other painfully or an odd assortment of limbs unsure of where to go.

It only further proved their evident compatibility.

* * *

"I love it when you snog me like that," Ron murmured, looking gob smacked.

"You violating my bum isn't half bad, either," Hermione responded dryly.

He blushed a deep crimson color. "Sorry," He murmured, licking his lips. "I just couldn't control myself. I guess it's one of those 'if the shoe fits' exceptions..."

"Meaning that it makes no sense, right?" Hermione answered, stifling a giggle. "You _still_ didn't use the idiom correctly, by the way." She remained quiet for a moment, presumably contemplating something. "Then again, that seems to be a common occurrence in your book. Although I'd say that assuming that Harry and I were having some sordid love affair for the past seven years deserves an entire chapter at the very least." Her gaze softened, and all traces of kidding around had disappeared. "Ron, you need to promise me something."

He glanced at her, looking alert. "Anything, love."

"Don't you ever so much as _think_ that Harry and I have ever shared that type of feelings for each other. I consider him my brother, and I highly doubt that girls kiss their brothers like _that_, unless they're barmy in one way or another."

Ron grinned, appreciating her persisting effort of trying to make him feel better. "Well, I can't deny the fact that there have been times where I've seriously considered chucking you in the loony bin."

Hermione threw a pillow at him. "Hush, you, unless you _don't_ want any of those distinct snogs, anymore..."

Ron held up his hands in mock surrender. "Trust me, love. I couldn't go a single day without a few of those. There's simply no turning back."

And for once, Ron knew _exactly_ what he was talking about.

* * *

_A/N: It's been a hectic week, and after submitting this chapter, I plan on going to sleep for a well-deserved twelve hours! But on a better note, it feel so bloody brilliant to write again! It's definitely putting things back into a better balance, you know?_

_I kind of realized that in the process of writing this story, I completely neglected one of the most important aspects of Ron and Hermione's relationship. I apologize if this chapter is dreadfully boring or a crap of dialogue, but I feel quite a bit lighter after writing it._

_I must say, this was a perfect way to end the week. Our new President-Elect only adds to the giddiness. _;)

_I believe a review is now in order, yes? Whether you like Obama or not _;)


	26. Iron Heart

Harry struggled with the large, cardboard box in his hand as he lifted the latch on the gate. The gate snapped shut with a click as he swung the box jauntily from his left hand. The cobblestone steps were painfully familiar now, so much that he no longer had to watch his step to avoid any stealthy cracks. He confidently rang the doorbell, hearing the undeniable melody echo throughout the house before the door fully opened, revealing a tired-looking woman.

"Come in, Harry," Andromeda said warmly, stepping aside slightly to allow him in. She stifled a yawn and rubbed her bleary eyes, before making an attempt to flatten her somewhat unruly hair.

Harry took note of this as he rubbed the soles of his trainers on the mat adorning the doorstep before stepping inside. "Is everything alright, Andromeda?" He inquired politely. "You look... well—"

"Awful?" Andromeda asked, summoning a sheepish grin. "Well, this is what happens when a baby catches a nasty fever and keeps you up all night, emitting colorful bogies and what not."

"Is Teddy alright?" Harry sounded alarmed. He took his duty as Godfather to Teddy very seriously, so much that even the slightest cough or strange noise (courtesy of the baby, of course) would provoke him to become thoroughly worried (or completely batshit crazy, as Ron so eloquently stated.)

"You worry too much, Harry," Andromeda admonished jokingly. She caught sight of Harry's frightened expression and sighed in an affectionate manner. "Yes, dear. He's on the verge of a _full_ recovery. And even if there is a chance for relapse, it's nothing a good dose of Pepper-up Potion couldn't fix."

Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief as Andromeda led him into the living room, where a standard tea tray was waiting. It had become a type of tradition between the two of them to enjoy a cuppa during his frequent visits, now that their relationship had thawed quite a bit. Over time, Harry became extremely fond of the agreeable woman, no longer making that prompt connection between her and Bellatrix Lestrange at first sight. Aside from that, the mere obligation of tending to Teddy had forged a bond between them, so much that Andromeda would even go as far as considering Harry her ally.

Today, Andromeda had already set out the tray on a coffee table. Steam billowed from the ornate kettle and a pitcher of milk stood precariously towards the edge, while an assortment of scones took up about half the space all on its own. Andromeda had also included an extra tidbit for the two— a slab of Honeydukes' finest chocolate.

"Remus insisted," Andromeda explained as she beckoned for him to sit down on the davenport. "And I know a sweet boy like you hardly indulges in these typical things..." She trailed off as she immediately handed him a cup balanced upon a saucer, liberally pouring the brown liquid into it.

Harry snorted at the thought, recalling last night's rendezvous with Ginny. "Ta," He said jovially as he added milk to the fragrant concoction, eying the various samples of scones in the adjacent basket.

"Don't neglect the chocolate completely, now," A wise voice suggested out of the blue.

Startled, Harry shook in his seat, nearly dousing himself with the tea. Groaning, he craned his neck and caught sight of the grand-looking portrait hanging upon the wall. "Remus, mate, you _need_ to stop doing that," He chided good-naturedly. "One of these days you're going to give me a heart attack!"

"If he doesn't fatten you up to Dudley's size first," Tonks countered, now taking part in the conversation. "Wotcher, Harry."

"Dora, it'd probably take _years_ for Harry to attain that weight," Remus argued with an underlying smile while Harry waved meekly. "I doubt a few squares of chocolate would make a considerable difference."

Tonks squinted her eyes, as if taking note of everything in the room. "True," She admitted dejectedly. "But what if that chocolate was paired with _those_ scones? And what if Harry were to return back to the Burrow and eat a month's worth of Molly's meals in one sitting? I'd say we'd have our own little Dudley in a fortnight."

Andromeda shook her head slightly, hiding a smile. "You'd think they'd have better things to discuss," She sighed, eying the portraits conspiratorially.

"I heard that, Mum!" Tonks called good-naturedly from her frame.

"True, Andromeda," Harry responded, grinning despite the inevitable difference of everything. It wasn't supposed to be this way, what with Tonks hindered by the confinements of a portrait and Remus not being able to taste the creamy sweet himself. And yet, it was a compromise, and Harry was considerably grateful for that. "But you can't deny it, you know. Depending on how you look at it, it's somewhat more fun this way."

* * *

Rabastan shrugged the opaque cloak over his shoulders, closing the clasp at the base of his neck. He tugged on a pair of dragon hide gloves onto his calloused fingers for old times' sake, flexing his fingers as the heavy material molded over rattled skin and bone. His wand lay stowed away in a convenient pocket, easy to reach during the most chaotic moments. With a satisfied sneer, he realized that this _entire_ charade wouldn't be short of chaotic if it went according to plan.

The plan that he had composed all by himself, unbeknownst to Rodolphus.

Rodolphus wanted things carefully construed and planned meticulously, down to the last _spell_. He wanted synchronized and foolproof and the guarantee of imminent pain on behalf of their victims. That very last clause was something Rabastan was more than willing to oblige to; the rest seemed completely unnecessary. It would take an unreasonable amount of time for their gang to carry out these plans with painstaking perfection, and their time was running out steadily. Their charmed hideout wouldn't remain oblivious under the noses of those moronic Aurors for long, and setting up base elsewhere would prove to be tedious in the long run. It had taken weeks to construct the labyrinth-like lair, and Rabastan wasn't willing for Rodolphus to dwindle their efforts to dust with his _maddeningly_ idle tactics.

Besides, Lucius Malfoy (the only thing keeping them from referring to him as a sniveling blood-traitor were the years he had selflessly devoted to the cause), a useful aid, had formally withdrawn himself from their side as an active member, regardless of his opinions on the entire matter of blood purity. Though Lucius hadn't voiced his decisions, Narcissa's stunt at the Battle of Hogwarts had confirmed their wavering alliance. It was his family (if any sane person could call that albatross of a woman and the sorry excuse for a son 'family', let alone _decent _human beings) that he was tending to wholeheartedly now, trying to protect now from the ridicule of the public. Despite Malfoy's efforts, Rabastan couldn't help but think that it was too late for this type of apology.

And this was why he was donning a Disillusionment Charm, cringing at the sensation.

Careful not to cross anyone else's path, he stealthily moved down the staircase and towards the back door, which was the only way any of the inmates entered and left, lest they actually _wanted_ to increase their chances of being found out. Breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of people in his proximity, he mentally crossed his fingers at the thought of Rodolphus being asleep, regardless of the factor of broad daylight. He would certainly throw a fit if he knew what Rabastan was up to, restraining him by illegal (and completely unbrotherly) means, if he had to.

He slipped out the front door quietly, even stifling the notion of breathing during that potentially dangerous moment. As soon as he set foot outside, he released the breath he was holding and continued to walk at a steady pace, not pausing to take note of any passerby in the secluded area. Instead, he went over his plan repeatedly in his head. _The intercepted letter said that they'd spend the afternoon in Diagon Alley, giving me enough time to get the Mudblood when she least expects it. The pathetic blood-traitor is sure to save her, and when he fails, I'll get him too. I'll drag them back to Rodolphus, and we'll either wait for Potter to come crawling to us, or we'll infiltrate and take him away for the last time_.

"For the last time," Rabastan murmured to himself, almost soothingly as he blended in with the unkempt foliage. "This is almost over."

* * *

Diagon Alley was smothered by a mess of people, all pushing and shoving in their tight-knit groups in an effort to run their errands as quickly as possible. Hermione held onto Ron's forearm tightly, willing herself not to lose him in the swarming crowd, though the gesture was also on behalf of her own desire. And though she was certain that she had voiced her opinion far too many times, Hermione couldn't help but once again be awed by the sheer bliss that had been trailing her around like an obedient terrier ever since she had spontaneously kissed Ron.

Despite these contented feelings, there was still something ominous lurking about. Hermione could sense it quite easily; it seemed as if the most insignificant things were fueling her anxiety. The throng of people circling the High Street seemed highly cautious, choosing not to linger at certain stores for long. She longed to see an elated child press his sooty face against the glass of a store's window, whooping with glee at the sight of a new broomstick model, but even an action as familiar as this was no longer a common occurrence. That tangible ease had not settled itself once more after the War had ended; if anything, it would probably take time for that sense of substantial safety to return.

The tip of the wand protruding from Ron's trousers' pocket had also caused Hermione to muse over their current situation. During their previous, annual visits to Diagon Alley, Ron had never kept his wand at such a close proximity. It was either carelessly tucked into one of the folding pockets of his robes, or twirled in a rough way between his fingers. The way it peeked out from the fabric, practically _expectant_, made it seem as if Ron had been readying himself for something out of the ordinary all along.

"Hermione?" Ron echoed dubiously, noting her stationary position. "Is something wrong, love? Why aren't you walking?"

She blinked in a hasty manner, noticing his concerned expression. "Sorry," She mumbled, feeling rather foolish. "I was just thinking."

Ron snorted. "When are you not?" He teased, attempting to make light of the situation. "But maybe you should stow that thinking cap away for another day, eh? Unless you actually _want_ to get trampled by this hippogriff of a crowd while buying your Hogwarts supplies."

"Please, Ron," Hermione said with a huff. "You'd have to be positively thick to want that." Gasping theatrically, she placed her free palm over her mouth, her eyes as wide as Galleons. "In that case, we better get you out of here!"

Ron rolled his eyes playfully. "Cheeky _and_ cute," He said softly, nipping at her nose with his thumb.

She sucked in her breath at the mere touch, feeling the restless crowds surrounding them dissolve listlessly as she looked him in the eyes. "I could say the same for you."

He was a little startled by this light banter between them; something of the sort that he was _sure_ to muck up. Every time he unraveled this conversation inside of his head, it never turned out the way he wanted it to, like the loveliest dream becoming a nightmare. In fact, these exchanges usually ended with him blubbering like a complete berk as he 'romantically' compared her determined disposition to that of a garden gnome when it was being hurled in the air while shouting obscenities.

Thankfully, he hadn't mentioned _that_ yet.

"You're amazing," He whispered earnestly, blushing furiously as the compliment slipped.

Before she could respond and before a familiar tinge could color her cheeks, an agonizing scream sounded somewhere nearby. And in that moment, it was the last significant thing Ron said to her.

* * *

_A/N: In my opinion, at least, Lucius Malfoy would drift away from the remaining Death-Eaters after the war. It just doesn't seem too smart to call those old buddies after the freaking Boy Who Lived saved your sorry arse from Azkaban. _:)

_Also, infinite kudos to all of those who take the time to read these chapters and leave reviews. You guys are bloody brilliant at motivating a gal _:)


	27. Clandestine Lunacy

Healer Toby impatiently drummed his fingers against the clean desk, avoiding checking his wrist watch as he had been doing every few minutes or so. By the precision of ticking, though, he could tell that only a few minutes remained before he could finally leave his broom closet of an office and take a much needed lunch break.

The days— no, the _weeks_ remained painfully uneventful. Of course, some of the more distinguished Healers would dismiss this as a blessing in disguise. Then again, they had already proved themselves with their skilled hands and a handy knack for Healing even the trickiest illnesses. Healer Toby, who just recently passed the mandatory (and not to mention positively _grueling_) Healing courses, still hadn't had the chance to prove himself. Still, he had found closure in the nice bird he met three weeks ago in the Hospital Tearoom; she had told him that this was fairly common for new Healers, and that he'd just have to bear it for a few weeks more.

Until then, Ann had apologetically said, he'd have to grace a smile while filling tedious paperwork and fetching necessary potions from the Apothecary in the Dungeons.

He counted to ten slowly, enunciating the syllables until they stretched comically. Toby looked down at his watch; feeling relieved as he saw that he had about ten seconds left until his break officially began.

"Ten," Toby murmured, walking towards the hooks and retrieving his lime green robes. "Nine... eight... seven... six... five... four—"

"Toby!" Healer David shrieked, looking nothing short of frantic as he burst into the pitifully small room. "I need you right away! Ann is already heading towards the Fourth Floor and I need you to follow suit!"

Toby sighed as he continued to put on his robes, shuffling through the buttons rather quickly. Healer David was a few years older and a bit dramatic, often sending Toby for Bruise Healing Paste and Boil Curing Potions in the dingy (and mildly creepy) Apothecary with a frighteningly high-pitched voice. "My lunch break _just_ started, David," Toby said gently. "I'm sure any other Healer can easily retrieve any potion you need."

David swore under his breath, looking harassed. "Quite right, Toby. However, any other Healer cannot make a trip to the Dungeons and get a very large vial of the Draught of Living Death, _and_ return to Ward Thirty-two of the Fourth Floor at a moment's notice." He eyed Toby warily for a moment, as if doubting his judgment. "The patient is not looking well in the least bit, and I trust that you can assist Ann and me in Healing her substantially in lieu of treating your stomach. Merlin help us if every intricate detail about Healing hasn't flown right out of your arse." David mumbled that last part under his breath, earning a suspicious glance from Toby.

"Ward Thirty-two," Toby rambled, ticking each assignment off of the fingers of his left hand. "A large vial of the Draught of Living Death. Keep everything in my arse. I _get_ it, David."

He waited for a response of any kind from the hasty Healer. None came, however, as David had already left the room; the shuffling of shoes and the billowing, green fabric that twirled against the immaculate tile was proof. Sighing at his disposition, Toby ran his fingers through the last of the buttons, setting forth for the Dungeons for what seemed to be the last time.

* * *

Ron paced the floor of the Reception Room, fuming at his own stupidity. The Welcome Witch towards the end of the crowded room had a maddeningly grating voice, and it took every bit of his self-control to tune her out _and_ control his anger. A barmy-looking bunch of wizards and witches sat in the various chairs situated around the large area, flipping through glossy pages of _Witch Weekly_ in order to busy themselves. One wizard winced as one of the several large boils on his face began to visibly leak, and another witch restlessly folded her severely swollen hands in her lap.

Naturally, Ron was furious with himself. He selflessly pinned all the blame on himself, partly because it made things so much easier to account for. Several taunting voices became audible in his head, reminding him of all the things he _should_ have done. He should have accompanied Hermione on a trip to Diagon Alley at a more suitable hour, rather than right in the middle of a threatening afternoon. He should have sided with his instincts, dragging Hermione right out of the busy street without a second glance. He should have asked Harry to visit Andromeda and Teddy on a different day; the injury rate might have been drastically lowered had the entire Golden Trio been together.

Most of all, he should have protected Hermione.

St. Mungos had become a frenzy the moment Ron arrived with an unconscious Hermione in tow, practically _growling_ at the Welcome Witch for a Ward. A Healer that had just arrived in the Reception Room took one look at Hermione and summoned a stretcher, looking every bit as worried as Ron. It had been almost an hour since he had taken her away, and this duration of time was doing absolutely nothing to calm Ron's nerves. Letting out a defeated sigh, he reluctantly sat down on one of the hard-backed chairs, his head falling into his hands.

"Mr. Weasley?"

Ron looked up to find a hesitant woman standing in front of him, looking timid. A crease in her forehead was evident, visible due to her furrowed brow. She wore the traditional, eye-watering, lime green robes and twirled a lock of blonde hair around her index finger, hesitantly waiting for him to respond.

"You can call me Ron," He croaked, standing up.

"Ron," She corrected herself, smiling gently. "My name's Ann. I was actually one of the Healers that was patching up your friend, Hermione."

Ron's eyes became wide at the thought of Hermione being patched up, like some raggedy doll with broken limbs. Healer Ann must have noticed, because she immediately began to reassure him.

"Oh— I didn't mean it like that!" Ann said quickly. "That was just a bad choice of words on my part, sir. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Ron said feebly, shrugging his shoulders as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Ann nodded, feeling foolish at her insensitivity. She averted her gaze, instead choosing to look at the pale flesh of his arm. She sucked in her breath at the sight of the visible gash that had left a splatter of blood on his forearm. "Why haven't you been treated for that?" Ann demanded, reverting to her Healer persona.

Ron blinked at the sudden change in her demeanor. "I guess I didn't notice it in the first place," He replied, flinching as he glanced down to take a good look at it. "When that one Healer bloke saw Hermione's condition, things became pretty chaotic."

Ann rolled her eyes at David's initial carelessness. She blindly fumbled through her packet, grinning triumphantly at the roll of gauze she had recovered. "Well, that was pretty idiotic on his part, wasn't it?" She said, unrolling the thick wad of cotton and pointing her wand at the wound. Muttering '_Tergeo_,' Ann siphoned the dried blood from his flesh, careful to avoid the large cut itself. The flesh healed itself with a swift _Episkey_; satisfied, Ann stowed her wand away.

Softly, she pressed a square of gauze against his skin, wrapping it around his arm with precision. Keeping the fabric in place with a Sticking Charm, Ann tucked in any loose ends before pocketing the rest. "It's important to attend to any cuts right away, Ron," She admonished. "An airborne infection could have settled into the wound, and it would have been quite the fickle to fix had that been the case." Ann turned away from the healed wound, finding herself staring into an alarmingly apathetic face.

"You're not particularly keen on discussing your arm, are you?" Ann felt foolish, inwardly cursing herself for her awkward demeanor. It had always been rather difficult for her to converse with a patient's family and friends, considering that she was often the one chosen to deliver the bad news. It was the downside to Healing; when a Potion didn't work out the way it was intended to, or even the most intricate handling didn't save someone. And it was always her sidled out of a Ward and towards the Waiting Room, where a grave pair of parents or a lone husband often waited.

"Gee, how'd you guess?" Ron responded sardonically. Immediately, he felt guilty, seeing the sheer hurt on her face. He silently berated himself, knowing that taking out his frustration on the Healers wasn't going to work out in his favor. "So... how is she?"

Ann could tell that the sheepish look on his face passed off as an adequate apology and she was grateful for it. "Would you like the good news or the bad news first?" She asked earnestly.

His face remained apathetic, though he let out a deep sigh. "Bad news, I suppose."

"Brave man," Ann muttered, rubbing her arm unconsciously. "Well, Hermione was in a very critical condition when we first examined her. There are several wounds on the entire right side of her body due to the fact that it broke her fall when she presumably hit the pavement. Also, the hex that was used against her caused her to lose an alarming amount of blood and house an injury towards the side of her head. The mere force of the hex and combined fall resulted in a broken fibula and a few cracked ribs. Aside from that, there's a high possibility for infections to develop." She paused, waiting for him to digest the bad news. "However, Hermione was considered extremely lucky in light of this situation. Despite all of the injuries, it's clear that most of them occurred after she fell, rather than because of Dark Magic. If this had not been the case, the wounds would have been difficult to Heal, considering that Dark Magic is practically a completely different brand of magic. Most methods of Healing aren't even compatible with wounds that have been caused by such foreign spells."

Ron was taken aback by the massive amount of information thrown at him. A part of him was grateful that her injuries could be treated, but the initial shock of the entire ordeal was still fresh in his mind. Paired with the fact that he didn't even know who Hermione's attacker was, Ron only remained slightly soothed by Ann's account of Hermione's luck.

"When can I see her?" Ron asked abruptly, hoping that Ann would drag him up to her ward right then and there.

Instead, she bit her lip furtively. "We've just given her a strong sedative, Ron," Ann began tentatively. "It isn't necessarily protocol for a Healer to allow..." Eventually, her voice died in the back of her throat as she caught sight of Ron's hollow face. The tired lines that had settled themselves in mere hours gave him a haunted expression, and his eyes looked positively woeful under the scrutinizing lights of the Waiting Room. He looked so different compared to the breezy-looking man gracing the cover of the Daily Prophet dating back to the recent days after the war. Ann realized that he was metaphorically crumbling right at her feet; dodging the strict rules of St. Mungo's for a few minutes wouldn't do much harm to her record, but it'd help Ron a great deal.

"Very well," She finally said with a heavy sigh. "Follow me."

* * *

"He isn't allowed in here," Toby murmured quietly, removing his no-longer-sterile gloves with a loud snap. "At least, not yet."

Ann gave him a dark look. "It's only five minutes, Toby. It's not like anyone is going to get hurt." She continued retrieving half-empty vials and bottles of Potions while smartly giving a woeful-looking Ron his space.

Toby snorted softly, so much that Ann had to strain her ears to hear it. "We most likely are, if David happens to venture back here."

"That's not likely." Ann rolled her eyes, grimacing as she siphoned a sickly stain from the sleeve of her robes with a cleaning spell. "You know how David is after Healing extensively. There's no doubt that he's up in the Tearoom, supplying himself with an unhealthy amount of Earl Grey tea as we speak." She pocketed her wand, giving Toby a stern look. "Be sensitive. Ron doesn't appear to be doing too well at _all_."

"Blokes aren't supposed to _be sensitive_," Toby mimicked her admonishment, though softening nonetheless at the sight of Ron.

He looked painfully stiff, perched at the edge of Hermione's temporary bed. His back was slightly hunched as if he were wallowing in his own defeat; a man losing an internal battle. Hands remained tightly clasped in his lap and his jaw became clenched. His eyes roamed hungrily over Hermione's body, his frown becoming more and more pronounced at her evident passiveness. He knew that she was no mirage, but something about her was just not _there_. It was the sheer paleness of her skin and how it seemed to spread to the hollow of her neck and the curve of her wrists like a disease. It was the way her hair trailed down her shoulders and arms limply, the trademark bushy locks no longer imposing prominently upon her head. He could only miserably conclude that she was starkly different from the old, vibrant Hermione.

It scared him immensely.

At that very moment, he felt a type of desperate hunger clinging to his senses. He longed for Hermione to morph back into her old self, to scold him for his terrible posture and to lovingly push the curtain of ginger locks away from his forehead. He wanted to feel the warmth of her touch blind every ounce of his common sense. It was an overwhelming need; something he feared that he could not control even if he gave it his best effort.

"How long will she be here?" Ron asked suddenly, surprising both Ann and Toby.

Toby glanced apprehensively at Ann. "A bit longer than a fortnight. We'll need to monitor her strictly and prevent any probable infections from settling in her wounds."

"We can owl you our visiting hours," Ann said tentatively. "For now, you should go home and get some rest. Let Hermione's family know about her condition."

Ron nodded, merely for the sake of listening. Grasping tightly at the starchy sheets, he stood up and began to walk towards the door, only to stop in half stride and return to Hermione's side. With a shaking, hesitant hand, he traced two of his fingers down the plump rise of her cheek, waiting for that involuntary sigh. It never happened.

"Does Hermione have a lot of family?" Toby asked conversationally.

Ron thought back to summers at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, imagining the rowdy, unbroken clan of Weasley's. They were her family just as much as they were his. "Yeah," Ron remarked solemnly.

Toby glanced at Ann, watching her check Hermione's pulse. "It makes it a bit easier to cope, you know, with a steady support group."

"Maybe..." Ron trailed off, feebly walking towards the threshold of the Ward. He had already witnessed mourning in his prime with Fred's death. With that blunt experience under his belt, he knew very well that even having the entire world on your side wouldn't lessen the pain. "But something tells me that I'm going to have to go about this on my own."

* * *

_A/N: Yes, Hermione is alright. For now..._

_Also, Ron doesn't know who Hermione's attacker (Rabastan) is. It makes things a bit more ominous this way. The entire scene will be explained in the next chapter, as well as why Rabastan didn't attack Ron._

_I'm still working out the kinks regarding the dates this story is taking place around, but I think I can safely say that Ron and Hermione are approaching the end of June, maybe venturing towards July._

_Reviews are always appreciated, as well as the fact that you all are taking the time to read this story. It means a lot _:)

_... Kind of like my own personal brand of heroin. (And if that strikes a familiar chord, I _did_ watch Twilight last night. For anyone that cares, I think the baseball scene was bloody brilliant!)_

:)


	28. Empty Day

Ron fingered his wand softly in the pocket of his trousers, willingly trying to dissect his subconscious. He recalled a tidbit of information Hermione had told him years ago about dreams; how minds would be infiltrated at night and a dream would be a result of that. She seemed so enthusiastic about the prospect, jabbering away about how she focused on kneazles and aero planes for the better part of the night just so that she could indirectly control the streams of her dreams, while all he could do was look at her with all the fondness a fifteen year-old could muster.

He swallowed a large lump in his throat.

Closing his eyes slowly, he continued to twirl his wand, willing for his mind to take him away when his body as a whole could not make the decision for him. For a few seconds, he remained still in the alley adjacent to Purge & Dowse Ltd. Breathing deeply; he let out a grunt of surprise as the familiar sensations of Apparation overwhelmed him.

Staggering slightly at the unfamiliarity of his new location, he opened his eyes and the well-known sights of Hogsmeade became evident. The cobblestone path felt prickly beneath his feet as he began to roam the streets, wondering why he had unconsciously brought himself here. The carefree place that he once looked forward to visiting now seemed different, though he was sure that it had something to do with the remaining planks of wood tacked messily to doors; signs that people had begun to flee just around the time that he, Hermione, and Harry had.

With much effort on his part, Ron walked towards The Three Broomsticks, opting to buy a Butterbeer to loosen his nerves. He reached the pleasant-looking pub with an iron heart, inwardly groaning as he realized the loads of people that could notice him. It was late afternoon; there was no doubt that the volunteers that were patching up Hogwarts (Bill, Charlie, and Fleur among them) would be lounging around in the merry place. He certainly didn't want to talk to them, because he knew that if he was given the chance to speak, his words would tumble like an unrestrained river until there was nothing left. Sighing for what seemed like the millionth time that day, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked along the winding path, heading towards the sign gracing a severed boar's head.

He kept his head ducked, only lifting his hands so that he could graze them lightly over his cheek, his pulse point, the nape of his neck; all places that Hermione had gloriously claimed for herself. When the grime-covered windows of the Hog's Head came into view, his breathing slowed down a bit as he calmed himself with the idea of a sit down and a large mug of questionable Butterbeer, or something stronger if it became absolutely necessary. With that in mind, he dug around in the pocket of his trousers for a few Sickles before entering the seedy pub. When his fingers felt something smooth and soft, he gulped as he withdrew the pouch filled with Hermione's formerly Muggle savings that had been exchanged at Gringotts mere hours earlier.

And when the fleeting memory of the afternoon brought him back to earth, he forgot the pub instantly, Apparating away to a safer haven.

* * *

The Burrow was quiet, and this was strange.

Normally, it seemed as if even the inanimate walls and furniture were alive; the way they groaned when pressure was a given. It was the same for the people, as well. The way Mrs. Weasley would hand out admonishments in a shrill voice when the boys became too rowdy; the way Ron would curse with surprising precision when he was irritated (_after_ checking to make sure his mum wasn't behind him, of course.) Kettles would whistle and foil would crinkle and maybe even belching contests would take place if everybody was feeling daring enough.

To be able to lounge around freely and hear the roaring wind tickle the trees was quite an accomplishment, Harry thought, let alone hearing your own _thoughts_. Still, his visit with Andromeda was cut short when Molly arrived, laden with a tin of homemade biscuits and a knitted jumper for Teddy. When it was clear that the two women were devoting the rest of the afternoon to catching up with each other's lives, Harry politely backed away into the hearth, his thoughts centered on Ginny.

Judging by the messily scrawled note that she had left on the ancient dining room table, Ginny had seized the chance of a quiet afternoon, making a swift trip to the Owlery in order to mail a letter to Luna. Harry snorted at the thought of his eccentric friend slowly gaining her strength for the school year in some barmy clinic in Bucharest, but the sight of an expectant owl at the window sill prevented that involuntary chuckle from bubbling over his lips. The owl expertly caught an Owl Treat thrown its way as Harry retrieved a scroll of parchment from its expectant leg. Harry eyed the wax seal keeping the scroll closed with interest; a wand and a bone, crossed.

"Where have I seen this..." Harry muttered as he pried the seal from its place. Still, it was adamant in staying in place.

"Need some help with that?" An amused voice asked, presumably from no where.

Harry jumped, warily eying Ginny as he turned around. "Merlin, Ginny!" Sounding exasperated, he adjusted his glasses which had gone awry on his face. "There are better ways to startle me, you know."

"And what, pray tell, may they be?"

He shuffled his feet, the letter _almost_ forgotten, as he became more and more aware of the empty Burrow. "A snog..." Harry muttered more so to himself so quietly that Ginny had to strain her ears just to hear him.

"I'm beginning to think that's all you blokes think about," Ginny said conversationally as she reached for a muffin from the bread basket.

"Well, what do you expect from us?" Harry helped himself to a piece of her snack. "Frolicking through the flowers and talking to butterflies?"

"You've been friends with Ron _way_ too long," Ginny commented airily, brushing the palms of her hands on her trousers. She leaned towards him, pressing her lips against him for a few moments. "Not that I mind, of course."

"Remind me to thank him later," Harry murmured, his vow stifled behind Ginny's chuckle.

"Who sent that letter?" Ginny gestured towards the scroll of parchment that now lay abandoned on the counter.

"I dunno," Harry responded, sounding frustrated. "It's got some type of wonky seal on it, though." With success, he managed to remove the sticker, unraveling the parchment. Furrowing his brow slightly, he skimmed the contents of his letter. His face paled considerably as he wordlessly handed the letter to Ginny, who reached for it promptly and began to read aloud.

_Mr. Ronald Weasley,_

_As promised, we have enclosed a list of suitable visiting hours to accommodate the next two weeks, along with a Visitor's Pass that will enable you to come and go as you please during these specific times. Please keep in mind that the patient will be strictly monitored otherwise due to the severity of the injuries and the possibility of varied infections; it would be best if you abided to these visitation rights only. It is permissible to bring other visitors with you, as well._

_If you have any questions for us regarding our procedures or the patient's health, do not hesitate to contact us. _

_Sincerely,_

_Healers David Bride, Ann Gallagher, and Toby Bourne_

"What the _hell_!" Ginny exclaimed, tossing the letter aside. The Visitor's Pass made an audible sound as it landed squarely against the tile of the counter. She whirled around to face Harry— a mingled expression of fear, anger, and confusion overwhelming her face. "Where the _hell_ is Ron?"

"Right here," Ron mumbled, fumbling with the knob of the back door. He entered the kitchen languidly, unbeknownst to the commotion around him. "Listen, I have to tell you what happened today..."

"Damn well, you do!" Ginny sounded stern as she retrieved the letter and handed it to Ron. Standing firmly besides Harry, she placed her hands over her hips, doing an alarmingly accurate impression of Mrs. Weasley. "Why have you received a letter from St. Mungo's?"

Ron gulped. Avoiding her beady gaze, he read the letter quickly and pocketed his Visitor's Pass. He looked up to find Harry and Ginny looking at him expectantly. Sighing, he cleared his throat.

"Was anyone in Diagon Alley today?" Ron asked gruffly, wringing his hands nervously in his lap.

Ginny looked puzzled. "Not that I know of..." She looked to Harry for confirmation.

"George is visiting Oliver over at the Puddlemere United Pitch with Lee," Harry said hesitantly. "Bill, Fleur, and Charlie—"

"At Hogwarts, I know," Ron responded. "Is Percy at the Ministry?"

Ginny nodded. "Dad's been holed up there for _days_, no doubt about that."

"What about Mum?"

"She stopped by Andromeda's place while I was there," Harry answered. "It's been quite a while since."

"And she's been home all morning," Ginny added. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

Ron gave both of them a weak, yet reassuring smile. He retrieved a kettle from the kitchen nook and placed it on the stove, intending to make a strong cup of tea. "I'll explain everything..."

* * *

Hermione felt cold.

She had been awake for only a few minutes, but the discomfort was already apparent. The hospital bed was stiff; it didn't mold to her body like the bed at her own home did. The sheets smelled faintly of some type of detergent, and it made her nose feel ticklish as the scent ambushed her olfactory senses. Her limbs felt limp, as if she hadn't used them in a thousand years; then again, she couldn't even if she tried. The effect of the sedative was still coursing through her body and in certain places she was firmly strapped to the bed.

It was as if the Healers knew she would run away from this damned place if she could.

Grunting, she managed to turn on her side and her legs followed suit, bending in odd angles. The hospital gown that she was wearing rode up a bit, and as she reached down to adjust it with one of her hands, she hissed at the cold. The flesh was unbearably cold, so much that it felt like a poorly performed Cooling Charm was the cause of her icy hands. Forlornly, she thought of Ron's big, freckled hands (one of the few things she _could_ remember); the ones that gave a reliable source of warmth and never failed to please. Whether it was laced fingers or cupped hands, his hands had made an impression that was sorely missed in the generic confinements of the hospital room.

Warily, Hermione pressed her hands flatly together and placed them between the insides of her knees— something she hadn't done ever since she was a little girl, exasperated at waiting for whoever was taking _ages_ in the toilet. Trying to ignore them completely, she focused on other things, like the immaculate-looking bottles that lined the table next to her bed. If she squinted enough and craned her neck (while ignoring the jolt of pain following the change in posture), she could make out the slanted print; Blood-Replenishing Potion, Calming Draught, Essence of Murtlap, and Strengthening Solution.

Curiosity got the best of her and she began to glance around the room, taking sight of the glum decor, the drab wallpaper, and the simple furniture. The walls were bare; not a single, irritatingly snide portrait graced any one of the four walls that had seemingly boxed her in.

"Well," Hermione croaked, surprised at the sensations of using her own voice, "I guess it's better than Azkaban, at any rate."

With a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes and began to mentally sort through her mind, doing whatever was efficient enough in keeping her sane. The small tasks that prolonged her from noticing the jagged bandages that ran up and down one side of her body without veering off course. The horrid bruise on her forearm; something that the Healers may have missed. The obvious absence of Ron; the one who meant so much to her that sometimes it caused her unbearable pain.

It was much easier to focus on trivial and mundane things, rather than the fuzzy spot in the back of her mind that told her nothing about why she received these injuries in the first place.

* * *

Harry rubbed his temples warily as he looked over the makeshift map once more. Hastily drawn with a quill, a sketch of Eeylops Owl Emporium took up most of the space on the piece of parchment, with an adjacent alley situated next to it. Following the alley was Twilfitt and Tatting's, and beyond that was a series of unnamed buildings that represented the rest of Diagon Alley.

"Let's go over this," Harry said logically, gratefully accepting the mug of tea Ginny had placed in front of him. "Hermione wanted to visit the Cauldron Shop, which is past Twilfitt and Tatting's." Picking up the quill, he messily dotted a building at random before initialing it with two _T_'s.

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Why would Hermione want to visit the Cauldron Shop, anyway? McGonagall hasn't even sent the letters with the listed Hogwarts supplies yet."

Ron managed to grin despite the situation. "You know how Hermione is, Gin. She wanted to practice brewing some of the N.E.W.T. level Potions, and buy a few of the Seventh Year textbooks to catch up with your Year."

Harry smiled fondly before turning towards Ron once more. "What happened afterwards?"

"The Cauldron Shop was just around the corner, past Eeylops," Ron explained. "Under normal circumstances, it would've taken us about ten minutes. Diagon Alley was so crowded, though, that we had to shove and force ourselves through just to make it past that bloody alley. And _then_, out of nowhere, we heard some deranged yelling coming from the shop. This one woman— I didn't know who she was —practically ran out of the shop, screaming her sodding head off. It turns out that some menace of an owl managed to escape from its cage, and it was acting completely barmy; flying after her and picking at her hair and nipping with its sharp beak and what not." He smiled slightly. "If I wasn't so annoyed with the state of Diagon Alley, I'm sure I would have chuckled at least."

Ginny snorted. "Still got that emotional range of a teaspoon, eh?"

Ron glared at her. "That was completely uncalled for, _Ginevra_."

She grimaced at the deliberate use of her full first name. "My apologies, Ickle Ronniekins."

Harry rolled his eyes at the both of them, prodding Ron with a hand. "What comes next after the mad owl?"

"The owner ran out, poor bloke. He tried to get the owl under control but the damn thing just wouldn't cooperate. You know... now that I think about it, it was almost as if the bird was bewitched." He scratched his chin. "Yeah... that definitely makes sense..."

"A crowded high street, a bewitched bird..." Ginny ticked off her fingers. "What else?"

"Some people tried to help, but I suppose it's kind of hard to aim a counter curse at a moving object in the middle of a crowd," Ron said. "Well, at any rate, that's what Hermione thought. By the time we walked halfway past the alley, the crowd thinned a bit, 'cos several of 'em were still trying to help that poor woman and others decided to just turn back instead of making another round. Hermione and I were holding hands— sod _off, _she's my girlfriend!— and all of a sudden, I felt her go limp." His voice cracked a bit. "It turns out, there was someone hiding in the alley. He was wearing a black cloak—"

"How do you know it was a man?" Ginny interrupted, watching Harry as he added details to the alley on the map.

"His wand movements," Ron answered promptly.

Ginny eyed him skeptically. "_Wand movements?_ That doesn't sound like a reliable lead, Ron."

"Blokes just use their wands differently than girls," Ron said off-handedly, not wanting to spark a row about sexism. "Girls usually do all that 'swish and flick' nonsense, but blokes deal their wands with a bit more masculinity." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Interesting..." Harry murmured. "Anyway, do you know what hexes he used?"

Ron shook his head ruefully. "I wish I did, mate. All I know is that he was mainly aiming for Hermione. And he had surprisingly good wand work, 'cos it would've been real easy to off the wrong person in a situation like that. I managed to hit him with a Stunning Spell, but I don't think it was very strong. Besides, if the arse had accomplices, it wouldn't have made a difference."

Ginny ran a hand through her hair thoughtfully. "I don't think he had accomplices. At least, not with him at the moment. If that were the case, the two of you would've been _ambushed_."

"Gee, Gin," Ron said dryly, "I really appreciate your optimism."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know what I mean!"

"I agree with Ginny's theory about the accomplices," Harry said loudly, attempting to change the subject. "What did you do after you hit him with a Stunning Spell?"

"Well, at that point," Ron began, "Hermione was looking pretty bad. She was on the ground, 'cos of one of his hexes, and was bleeding badly. I tried to make her come around but it was pretty blatant that she was unconscious. I ended up Apparating her in the alley next to St. Mungo's and luckily, a Healer was already in the Waiting Room. It didn't even take five minutes for her to get a Ward."

"Is she okay, Ron?" Ginny asked gently.

Ron shook his head glumly. "Based on what Healer Ann told me... Severe loss of blood, head trauma, broken fibula, broken ribs, burns, cuts..."

Harry let out a low whistle, exchanging worried looks with Ginny. "She's not comatose or anything, right?"

"Thank Merlin she _isn't_," Ron responded softly, trying to ignore the steady burning and watering in his eyes. "It's already hard enough as it is..."

* * *

"You 'eard the boss," Yates snarled, dragging Rabastan with him along the corridor. "'e only requests Rabastan's presence."

Adams frowned. "We're important too, mate. It's only fair if we get to be listenin' after 'ow 'ard we've worked."

"Too bad," Rabastan sneered, rolling his eyes at his junior accomplices. He shook Yates off his shoulder, straightening his robes with dignity. "I'll be inside. If I catch any of you listening..." He trailed off, intending to sound threatening. Once the two men began to walk reluctantly towards their quarters once more, he turned the doorknob of the threshold with a trembling hand.

"Enter," A voice said coolly.

Rabastan closed the door behind him, taking a deep breath. The room was dark, lit only by a scattering of candles. Rodolphus stood in the center, his wand placed before him on an end table made of rich mahogany. The flames of the candles created shadows around the room, giving it a ghastly atmosphere. Still, Rodolphus had fared worse serving the Dark Lord; jumping in fright at the sight of a candle after fourteen years in Azkaban was highly unlikely.

"Hello, Rodolphus," Rabastan said quietly as he walked towards the table.

Rodolphus merely nodded nonchalantly, following Rabastan's eyes around the room. "Did you have a pleasant afternoon?"

He scowled. He was in no mood to play childish mind games with Rodolphus. "I'll ignore that remark, brother," Rabastan said through gritted teeth.

"How ironic," Rodolphus said condescendingly. "I wish I could do the same regarding _your_ actions today, Rabastan." At this point, he picked up his wand and began to walk around the table, twirling the slender object menacingly. "Unfortunately, an act as foolish and uncalled for as yours is hard to... _ignore_."

"What do you expect from me, Rodolphus?" Rabastan exclaimed, turning his neck from side to side to watch his brother's rotating figure. "I'm not going to sit here and collect dust while those sniveling brats are running around London without a care in the world!"

Rodolphus stopped in his tracks. "Is that what you think?" His voice was low and angry. "While you're carelessly gallivanting around town, it is I who is sitting here, making plans. You think it's so simple, don't you?" He began to sneer. "It isn't just about taking those wretched people and throwing them in some crude grave. It's about _breaking_ them, Rabastan. You know what they did to us." Rodolphus began to shiver with anger. "You know what they did to _my_ Bella. You know what they did to the Dark Lord, the ones who were promised all they could ask for in a clean, Pureblood world..."

Rabastan began to speak, only to have Rodolphus' wand aimed directly at his throat. "I'm not finished yet, Rabastan. Your efforts were futile today, were they not? Your plan was hasty, what with bewitching a bloody owl and having a bit of sheer, dumb luck." He stopped walking once more, now facing Rabastan. The wand remained at his throat. "Tell me something, Rabastan. What would you have done, had you captured the Mudblood and the blood traitor?"

Finally given the chance to speak, Rabastan looked his brother in the eyes. "I would've brought them back here by force. You know the rest."

Rodolphus clucked his tongue. "Two against one, brother. What if they managed to fight you off? Run away? Disapparate together?"

His voice wavered under Rodolphus' penetrating glare. "I would've... I would've killed them! I would _hurt_ them!"

For a few moments, the only audible sounds were Rodolphus' monotonous steps on the cool, wooden floor. "You would take that away from me? From your own _brother_?"

"They'd be finished in the end, wouldn't they?" Rabastan protested weakly.

Rodolphus eyed his younger brother for a moment, as if contemplating a response. "I don't want them finished, Rabastan. I want them _slaughtered_."

* * *

_A/N: Ooh, Rodolphus is pretty angry..._

_I've researched the layout of Diagon Alley, and I've come to the conclusion that Eeylops Owl Emporium is next to an alley, which could've formerly been a shop that was blown to smithereens at some point during the War. As for Twilfitt and Tatting's, I have no bloody clue to where _that _is, but hey, I never called myself a perfectionist!_

_No, Hermione isn't aware of what has happened. Over time, she may recall things, but then again, there's always Ron to tell her. _

_Reviews are appreciated, and before I forget, I wish all a Happy New Year. Good luck on your resolutions..._


	29. Heliotrope

Ann flicked her wand towards the lamp beside Hermione's bed, stifling a yawn behind her hand. Setting down a heavy-looking file on an adjacent counter, she began to rearrange various vials of Potions in corresponding order. The Trainee assigned to Hermione's Ward had already done so the afternoon before, but Ann still opted to double-check the temperatures of the antidotes, making precise notes in her folder.

Toby walked in, yawning audibly as he set a cup of coffee before Ann. "Two creams, two sugars." He swallowed another yawn before continuing somewhat wearily. "I figured that tea wouldn't quite do the job on a morning like this..." He let out a low whistle at the sight of the clock on the wall, now chiming seven o'clock.

"Ta," Ann said absentmindedly, rubbing her temples with her index fingers and thumbs. "Did David complete preliminary examinations the night before?"

Toby nodded in affirmation. "Yeah, but he did a rather shifty job, if you ask me. It seemed like he was in quite a hurry..." He took a loud gulp of his coffee.

Ann rolled her eyes, albeit amusedly. "I'm sure I'd behave the same way if _my_ wife was scheduled to go into labor on any given day of this week, Toby."

"Is that even _possible_? I mean, you being a bird and all..."

She huffed in exasperation. "I suppose not, Toby. Just like it isn't impossible for _you_ to shut your mouth for a good five seconds, either."

"Ouch..." Toby muttered, slipping on a pair of durable gloves. "Someone's on their time of month..."

She merely smiled sweetly. "_Someone_ doesn't quite value all of their body parts in perfect order, either." Not wanting to escalate their row any further, she joined him in donning her Healer gear. "How is Hermione's head injury?"

"Judging by the symptoms, David and I are certain that she's suffered from a concussion," Toby answered. "We did a few tests on her eyes, and they're still quite sensitive. At one point during the middle of the night, she called in for a Trainee on duty. Joel said that she was practically begging for 'that absolutely _maddening_ ringing to stop.'" He took out a glass vial from an ornate-looking shelf on the wall, measuring precise amounts of Potions into it. "It's mild, but there's still a chance of post-traumatic amnesia."

Ann's eyes widened slightly with recognition as she retrieved Hermione's patient file once more. "Refresh my memory, Toby," Ann murmured, flipping through the papers impatiently. "But who exactly did this to her?"

"Half of these injuries only could've been sustained by Dark Magic, Ann," Toby said pointedly. "You-Know-Who's long gone. Harry Potter made sure of that. But that doesn't mean someone else isn't running around, trying to finish the deed."

"Oh, God..." A gloved finger pointed limply towards a word written in neat print. _Muggle-born_. "You don't think someone is after her, do you? The girl is barely of age. She hasn't even been eighteen for a full year yet!"

Toby eyed the girl, succumbed by sleep and curled feebly on the generic hospital mattress. He spoke hesitantly. "I talked to David about it already, Ann. He says that this whole situation is so complicated... notifying the Auror Department, or _any_ authority for that matter could breach patient confidentiality."

"Patient confidentiality, my arse..." Ann muttered hotly under her breath, stalking towards the counter once more. She angrily dipped her quill in an inkwell and retrieved an official scroll of St. Mungo's, bearing its standard information. "Patient confidentiality doesn't mean a _thing_ if some nutter is running around, trying to off innocent people."

Toby leaned on his elbows awkwardly, the tension in the room permeating his senses. Only Hermione seemed unaffected by the commotion around her, adapting well to the sedatives given to her. He almost felt guilty about the dosage, knowing that it wasn't substantial enough to keep her at peace for long. She'd be awake soon, and anxiety would cake her features. He was sure of it. And when she was told, in excruciating detail, about how she had almost withered away at the hands of Dark Magic...

Toby watched Ann's face mask into that of indignation as she hastily signed the letter. As always, her logic defeated all. _Even David,_ he thought wryly.

Patient confidentiality, _his_ arse, too.

* * *

Ron trudged after Harry along the unkempt streets, clutching his wand tightly. He discreetly rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, only to shut them tightly a moment later when an image of Hermione resurfaced. She was always the same; broken and bruised, limp and awry. They were all indications of what _could_ have happened had fate not been on their side. That iota of chance was what had frightened him the most, much to his chagrin. The thought that she was so very close to the realm of death...

"Ron?" Harry's voice was gentle against a cutting breeze of wind. There was a silent question of Ron's well-being tucked between his gestures. Harry didn't need to voice his concern. It was blatant in the crease along his forehead, the nervous wringing of his fingers.

"I'm fine." Ron's reply came across as a noncommittal grunt, but Harry knew better. Ron avoiding eye contact and choosing to walk by himself spoke in volumes about his misery.

"The phone booth is just this way..." Harry spoke more to himself than Ron, who had already resumed walking at his own, phlegmatic pace.

Harry sighed quietly. The afternoon would be difficult.

* * *

Ron groaned with irritation as Hestia's overbearing, stentorian assistant led the duo down a maze of cubicles beyond a set of heavy, oak doors. The stout-looking man bore an uncanny resemblance to Percy in terms of personality and attitude, although Ron duly-noted that Percy often had the decency to shut up now and then. _This_ man, on the other hand, wouldn't allow anyone else a word in edgewise. Unfortunately, he happened to be Hestia's front man and the only way to speak with her, _even_ with Kinglsey's consent.

"Right this way," Jonathan said haughtily, not bothering to address them with a turn of his head. "Do try and keep up, please. Hestia happens to be quite busy today. A magnanimous woman such as herself doesn't always rescind her schedule."

Harry made a crude hand gesture towards the man's head, in hopes of alleviating the tension a bit. Ron snorted half-heartedly, before nodding his head, indicating that pummeling the git into the ground wasn't worth it. At least, not while they were awfully close - only one more corner to round - to the Head Auror's office.

"Have a seat," A voice called vigilantly from within the cubicle, as if expecting their visit all along. Jonathan stood pompously by the narrow opening towards the large cubicle, only edging towards the side when Ron cleared his throat pointedly. Hestia remained at her seat, squinting slightly at an overwhelmingly-large scroll behind a pair of ancient-looking eyeglasses. Her hair looked hastily smoothed into place, though her distinguished Auror robes did not appear unkempt in the slightest.

"Have a seat," Hestia said professionally, gesturing towards a pair of hard, wooden chairs situated in front of her desk. "I hope Jonathan wasn't abrasive towards you."

While her assistant had the sense to look abashed, Ron bit back a sarcastic retort. "Not at all," Harry responded quickly, eager to change gears in their conversation. "Your schedule was mentioned, though. We didn't really take note of time when we decided to pay you a visit. So if we're intruding..."

At this point, Jonathan was out of earshot, already heading back towards his own miniscule office. "Nonsense," Hestia scoffed, summoning a thin case file. "You can hardly call this an infinitesimal issue. We have several discrepancies to discuss regarding Miss Granger's attack among other things. First things first, though." Hestia rested her chin in her palms, leaning forward against the desk. "I've heard a few renditions of this, but I'm always inclined to think that an eyewitness is the most helpful. That being said, let's hear it. Leave out _no_ details; they may be more of an asset than you think."

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly, slightly encouraged by Hestia's straightforward demeanor. He retrieved a grubby piece of parchment from his pocket, wrinkled from wear and littered with bits of smeared ink. "It's not in the best shape..." He said apologetically, smoothing it out before pushing it towards her.

She eyed the makeshift map with interest, running the length of her wand along the margin. "_Effingo_," Hestia muttered, making the same wand movements on a fresh sheet of parchment. "It's a facsimile," She elucidated, meeting the curious stares of Harry and Ron. "Now I'll have an exact copy to keep in my case file." She handed the map back to Ron, who pocketed it once more. "That's an ingenious idea, you know. I doubt that half of my Trainees would even have the common sense to create a map when the memory is still fresh." Hestia blatantly rolled her eyes.

Ron's ears tinged. "It was Harry's idea, mostly." He shuffled slightly in his seat.

"Regardless, it's traits of an Auror in the making," Hestia answered smartly. "This reminds me..." She keenly peered at them, as if considering their strengths based on physical traits alone. "I assume I'll be seeing the two of you embarking on the vigorous escapade of the Auror Academy sooner or later, eh? The First Year begins in November." Noticing the two of them communicating through a series of gestures, she appraised them once more. "Although that's another matter entirely. We still have _ages_ to persuade the two of you to pursue three years of absolute hell."

Harry managed to crack a smile, but Ron merely looked wary at the mention of hell. If Hestia noticed his melancholy demeanor, she tactfully chose to ignore it. "We'll be searching for this attacker throughout the local districts. I've already dispatched Aurors to Lewisham and Islington."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Harry's voice was amicable.

"Aside from waiting and scoping, nothing much else..."

* * *

The hallway outside of Ward Thirty-two was painfully crowded with several members of the Weasley clan. Molly looked absolutely frantic; clutching a worn-looking handbag in one arm, the other looped through Jean Granger's. Jack and Arthur stood off quietly towards the side, no doubt feeling a massive churn of emotions but choosing to mask it well. Everyone sidled off into their respective groups, wearing identical expressions of anguish and anxiety. Most of all, though, was the atmosphere of sheer exhaustion. Almost as if all of the sacrifices made were no longer enough. Hermione was the proof, after all. It seemed to affect Ron the most, which was why Jean gently pushed him forward when Healer David Bride emerged from behind the Ward's door, looking slightly overwhelmed at the vast number of visitors.

"For the sake of Hermione's health, I can only permit one to two people at a time," David had informed them authoritatively - prompting Jean to send Ron off first with a subtle indication. Mother's intuition told her he was particularly desperate for that closure.

With an appreciative - yet hesitant - smile, Ron squeezed her hand in a gesture of thanks and headed towards the heavy door with the esteemed Healer in tow. David shut the door behind them softly, pointing his wand and muttering an indistinct spell at the intravenous drip administering a Potion into Hermione's arm.

"She'll come hither in a few minutes," David explained, tucking his wand back into the pocket of his robes. Seeing a look of masked anxiety in Ron's eyes, he answered another question. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. She _will_ be able to think coherently and speak to you - which brings me to my next point. The Potion that she's been routinely taking bears the issue of quite a few side effects, the most frequent one giving her quite the farcical personality."

"Farcical?" Ron croaked. Involuntarily, he grinned. "You mean she's been behaving all loopy?"

"Precisely," David answered, now leading Ron towards a chair situated by Hermione's bed. "In an uncanny way, it's a bit like Veritaserum. Lately, when she _is_ awake, she often loses all resolve and makes comments about things - and I'm sure she wouldn't say them if the Potion wasn't coursing through her bloodstream. It's not unusual for her to frequently comment on our 'piss poor, dishwater-flavored tea', or so I have been told." He smiled wryly.

"Oh, Merlin," Ron muttered to himself, now smiling in a way that could only be characterized as fond. "A potion loosening her up like that? That's genius..."

David chuckled. "Now, would you like your time alone with her?" He checked the clock that hung on the wall, making note of the minutes that had elapsed. "She should be awakening in any second, now." Surely enough, Hermione began to stir, with Ron immediately at her side. David took this hint graciously as his cue to leave. "I'll just give you a few minutes to yourselves, then..."

* * *

Hermione's hand felt undeniably limp in Ron's, but his grin was still wide. He sweetly caressed her knuckles with the rough pad of his thumb, marveling at the sensation of her flesh. She looked well, surprisingly - not quite as pale as the last time he had seen her. And god, she was _smiling_, just as emphatically as he was. In that moment, everything clicked in all aspects. Visibly, emotionally, mentally, physically; it was all so painfully right.

"I've missed you." Ron bent down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. "So very much..." His words disappeared into a distinct pattern against her skin.

"Whatever stopped us from doing this?" Hermione mused aloud, tiredly rubbing a hand along the nape of his neck with affection. "We should have done this a long time ago, really. If I had it my way, I probably would have snogged the life out of you on the first day of term." She bit her bottom lip, as if making a difficult decision. "By Fifth Year, definitely."

Ron raised his head, lifting an eyebrow at her nonchalant comment. David's warning rung in his ears. He inwardly grinned evilly, deciding to have a little fun. "Really, Hermione? Didn't we take our O.W.L.'s in Fifth Year? Surely your maddening schedule of studying your arse off began as soon as we got off the train. I doubt you'd have even a _moment_ to spare for me." He leaned down to kiss her once more, only to feel surprisingly strong fingers flick him at the base of his throat. "Oi!"

"Serves you right," She countered demurely, watching him with amusement as he rubbed at the spot. The second time he aimed for her cheek, she shifted her face at the last minute so that his lips found hers with mild awe. Seconds melted away as he claimed what he had once temporarily lost, and she willingly let herself go. The feeling was wonderful, marvelous, stupendous, brilliant... Hermione found herself running out of adjectives...

"You smell funny." Hermione pulled away suddenly, nearly sending Ron toppling over her. She sniffed with a curious expression. "Like cinnamon. You smell like cinnamon and blokes."

"That would be the breakfast Mum made for me," Ron said dryly. "As for the latter, you can blame it on the anatomy, love..."

She shook her head, giggling. "No, silly."

_Silly? _Ron thought with confusion. _Since when does Hermione call me silly? Maybe a driveling idiot, but..._

"You smell like a disgusting bloke," Hermione elucidated. "Merlin, have you showered?"

Ron balked visibly for a moment, though with mirth. "I went for a fly this morning, you know. _This_ is the smell of being a man, Hermione. The one with might and agility." He puffed out his chest for emphasis.

"I think you mean the one who does not understand the concept of a well-timed bath, Ron," She responded cheekily. Skillfully dodging his playful shove, she continued to chortle. "It's alright, love. It does nothing to change my absolute love for you, so consider yourself lucky."

Ron tactfully kept his jaw closed, though it surely would have dropped otherwise at her blunt revelation. _She loves me? Wow... Bloody hell!_

"Ron?" Hermione's voice sounded like a worried clamor. "Is everything alright?"

Ron grinned goofily, taking her hands in his. He could have joyously danced around the room; thankfully, he could still restrain himself at this point. _She loves me..._

"I'm fine, Hermione," Ron reassured her with bright eyes. "Everything is brilliant."

* * *

_A/N: Hello, all! It's been ages and I apologize profusely for not updating sooner. Really, it's been almost four freaking months! -Slaps herself vigorously on the head- Also, I'm desperately on the lookout for feedback regarding how these chapters are coming along. You know, if the plot is flowing very slowly or if I'm not getting the mood across very well or if they all are flat out piss poor and I should just stab myself repeatedly in a painful fashion. You get the gist?_

_Happy reading to all. And before I forget - I suppose a dedication to _AbbieLynne_, who very bluntly told me to get off my arse and write the sodding chapter, already! That totally gave me the push I needed - infinite kudos for that!_

_Review? Prease?_


	30. Fortress

Rodolphus briskly brushed the awry strands of hair that had fallen into his face. In a typical, regal stance, he made the first of many rounds throughout the Headquarters. His wand remained at the ready as he traveled down a particularly long hallway, pausing to peer into the first room on his left. Aside from a makeshift desk in the corner and a large bureau, the room was bare. Yardley sat at the desk, writing something with great concentration with a large, white quill.

"Have Yates and Patrick left?" Rodolphus inquired. He didn't bother with knocking on the door that stood slightly ajar, opting to simply walk in, instead.

Yardley turned around, addressing Rodolphus with a nod. "They Apparated to Sheffield quite a few hours ago and they took a few spell books with them. They have several other stops to Apparate to – perhaps six more, before they arrive in Drogheda." He paused for a moment, digging in his pocket to retrieve a small, spherical object. "I've disclosed information about the Protean Charm, as well. When it's safe again, I'll request their return."

Rodolphus nodded, pleased with this information. "What about the others? Have Garner and Khan left as well?"

Yardley shook his head. "They have yet to finish constructing the third antechamber. It still requires spell work to serve our purposes." He returned to his parchment briefly, signing it with a flourish. "I have other news as well, Rodolphus, regarding the Mudblood. Apparently, she's in critical condition, though the Healers have been successful so far in nursing her back to health." Yardley grimaced, as if the mere idea of divulging attention to a Muggle was a sin.

"Are you sure of this, Yardley?"

"I made the rounds myself, two nights ago. Under the pretense of visiting my _greatest_ idol, a Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart." He scoffed blatantly as he retrieved a folded newspaper. "Today's _Prophet_ may be of interest to you."

Without a word, Rodolphus accepted it, sardonically arching an eyebrow as his eyes scanned the headline. "_Ministry Continues to Exercise Protocol With Regards to the Highly Anticipated Azkaban Trials_." Murmuring to himself, he began to scan the short, embellished article.

_Yesterday, in an official statement released by the Ministry of Magic, the public has learned that Azkaban Trials will begin within the next few weeks. Following the defeat of You–Know–Who at the Battle of Hogwarts on the 2nd of May, the Ministry has been efficiently purging its Headquarters of all of those affiliated with his cause. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the recently–named Minister of Shacklebolt, informed the press of the nature of the corrupt Ministry in wake of You–Know–Who's rise to power._

_"Aside from the Auror Department, virtually every other department in the Ministry has been infiltrated by Voldemort's followers," Shacklebolt said, when asked about the reliability of the Ministry. "It has come to our attention that quite a few Ministry officials have kept quiet about a majority of offenses with the promise of bribery. However, those concerned for the well–being of the Wizarding World have done a superb job in removing any blackguards. Those who have been accused of any sort of crime are being held in either Azkaban or confined in their homes, depending on the severity of their wrongdoing."_

_To many wizards and witches of England, the Azkaban Trials will be a long–waited feat of justice. In the last year alone, You–Know–Who and his followers, referred to as Death Eaters, were responsible for the mass murders of several Muggles and Muggle–borns. Alongside these two majorities of people, You–Know–Who also targeted anyone that opposed his doctrine, resulting in the slayings of several Wizarding families. Aside from this atrocity, You–Know–Who also penetrated the magnificent defenses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland, bestowing Severus Snape as the Headmaster and Alecto and Amycus Carrow as professors. There is substantial evidence that suggests that the Carrows repeatedly tortured students, either due to their backgrounds, their affiliations, or out of pure spite._

_At the moment, Alecto and Amycus Carrow are being held in custody, along with several other notable Death Eaters. Currently, the Auror Department is scoping the areas – along the borders of England and towards Wales – for anyone linked to You–Know–Who. Kingsley Shacklebolt has also stated that the Department of International Magical Cooperation is negotiating with foreign Ministries to ensure that any guilty parties that have fled to other countries are convicted. Azkaban Trials begin on the 1st of August._

Beneath the article was an elaborate picture of the prison cell. The North Sea surrounding it looked harsh and wild, wearily beating the massive stone building with a fresh torrent of waves. Rodolphus knew, though, that the periodic effort of the water was going to waste completely – the defensive spells and charms that pieced Azkaban together were extraordinary magic; albeit he considered this last thought begrudgingly. Nonetheless, he knew the damned place like the back of his hand. He also knew that the chance of Alecto _or_ Amycus escaping from the cell was dismally small; while they were exceedingly cruel, their magical abilities as a whole were another matter entirely.

"No matter," Yardley said, as if reading Rodolphus' mind. "Jugson has been successful in recruiting a Scottish coven of some sorts – although they are wizards, rather than witches. Travers has accomplished something similar in Bulgaria, as well."

Rodolphus merely inclined his head stoically, stroking the pad of his thumb along his chin. If such news regarding the Death Eaters had already made it to the newspapers, then it would be very hard to round up a majority of the remaining loyal, followers. The ones that made up Voldemort's inner–circle; _that_ was what he needed. The obvious choice to call upon would be Lucius Malfoy, and Rodolphus had tried to do so. His attempts at communication were not successful at all. In fact, several sources had confirmed that Lucius was being repeatedly cornered by the Ministry. For the sake of his family's reputation, he was pulling away from the cause entirely.

Rodolphus sneered. If he gave a damn about his family's reputation, he would swallow his arrogance and join ranks. With a grim smile, he decided that witnessing the hollow look on Lucius' face when he triumphantly rampaged all of England would be quite marvelous. He didn't need the posh, frilly bastard.

"I'll have to be more careful around the Ministry," Yardley commented off–handedly. "Nobody can afford to do a shoddy job in that place anymore without the threat of getting chucked into Azkaban..."

Rodolphus' only response was an odd cough in his throat. "Of course they can't do a shoddy job, Yardley." He said this as if it was quite obvious. "After all, they'll be receiving the heaviest brunt of the blow when we're through with them."

* * *

"You've done a great job of cleaning up the shop," Lee remarked. His eyes wandered along the shelved walls, and he sniffed appraisingly at the fresh spell of paint. "Seriously, mate. You'd think this place would look like absolute shite."

"Thanks, Lee," George responded dryly, carelessly dropping a bulky–looking cardboard box at the front desk. "Well, I _did_ have a bit of help, actually. I guess Ickle Ronniekins has a bit of free time, now that he doesn't have a girlfriend to snog round the clock."

"Is Hermione doing okay, then?" Lee asked, placing another box onto the floor with a resounding thud.

George shrugged. "Better than most, I suspect. The Healers are doing a brilliant job, though, as far as I'm concerned. It's already been at least a week since we first visited her. Most of the time, she's drifting in and out of sleep, but she's capable of practically everything. Even boring us to tears with her S.P.E.W. propaganda." He smiled fondly, tossing a pair of robes to Lee.

Lee shrugged on the garish–colored robes rather quickly. "So, when do you plan on reopening the shop?" With his wand, he skillfully unsealed a box, removing several pouches of Potions ingredients.

"I dunno..." He scratched his chin. On cue, he walked towards the wall behind the front desk, flipping through a hastily hung calendar. "I reckon the eighth of August is good," George muttered, tracing an _X_ onto the appropriate square. "What do you think?"

"I think it's absolutely barmy that you own a calendar, mate," Lee said, chuckling jovially. He heartily clapped George on the back, glad to see his friend adjusting to his life once more. Although it often meant cracking a joke at every possible moment, Lee was simply happy to see things reverting back to the way they used to be. "So you think three weeks is enough time to make all of the merchandise?"

George grimaced. "It's going to be tough, but I think we'll have everything under control. We already have all of the necessary ingredients, and Fred always did a good job of stowing away our instructions neatly in the back room."

"And you never thanked me for that, brother," Fred said lazily, clucking his tongue patronizingly.

George grinned brightly – so much that the sensation stung his face. "True, but I _did_ always turn a blind eye when you brought some bird up to our flat to rendezvous. You're lucky I'm decent at tuning people out cos you usually didn't have the brains to perform a Silencing Charm half the time."

The young man in the portrait smiled nostalgically. "Remember that one girl from Cornwall? She had absolutely fantastic hands..."

"Oi! I don't need to hear about the notches in your bedpost!"

Fred leered good–naturedly at Lee. "He's just jealous that the dashing, charismatic twin caught up with her first." Suddenly, his expression became slightly solemn. "Have you talked to Alicia yet, George?"

"Alicia?" Lee's eyebrows shot up. "Well, this ought to be interesting."

George blushed. "Not yet," he grunted heavily, busying himself with a parcel of what appeared to be something green and slimy. "Why would I talk to her anyway? I haven't got much to say."

"Yeah, 'cept that you're absolutely mad about her," Fred said with a snort. "Get on it, mate! If Oliver could get his arse out of a Quidditch Pitch long enough to make the moves on Katie, then you can certainly tell Alicia how you feel about her."

Lee let out a low whistle. "I had no idea that you fancied Alicia, mate. Last time she wrote to me, she mentioned something about settling in London and dumping her prick of a boyfriend."

George perked up at this. "She had a boyfriend?"

Lee nodded. "Met him at the Three Broomsticks, or something. I bumped into them once at an apothecary a while back. I didn't like him at _all_. He was incredibly possessive of her and nearly pissed himself at the sight of her talking to another bloke."

George frowned. Unfortunately enough, he could imagine his old friend from school being pushed around. She was always incredibly mellow and willing to compromise, though too much of any trait was never good. He wasn't surprised that she managed to land an arse of a boyfriend. Though she was strong, she often chose to see the good in people, rather than the blatantly bad.

"I could always write to her and ask her to drop by the shop," Lee offered kindly. "It'll be nice for all of us to catch up again. Merlin knows I haven't seen Angelina in years, either."

"How is Angelina?" Fred asked, smiling fondly. "You making the moves on her yet, Lee?" He grinned devilishly.

"Who, _Angelina_?" Lee looked repulsed. "No way, mate! She's like my bloody _sister_, for Pete's sake!"

"Isn't she on her way to becoming a reserve Chaser for the Harpies?" George asked. "I thought I read something about that in the Quidditch Highlights a month ago..."

Lee nodded. "She's thrown herself into Quidditch remarkably quick. Come to think of it, aside from Oliver, she's the only one among us to actually pursue it professionally."

George shrugged. "Don't get me wrong – I loved beating the crud out of Slytherins. It just wasn't something I could imagine myself doing for the rest of my life."

Fred smirked. "You'd be surprised at the birds you get flocking after you, Lee, when you own a _joke_ shop.'Course, it seems like the only bird who George wants isn't falling for our swagger..."

George glanced up at the portrait of his brother, with a vial in his hand. The liquid in it bubbled furiously. "Don't make me chuck this at you, mate."

Fred merely smiled good–naturedly. "If I were you, brother, I'd be paying a bit more attention to Katie. Although I can't blame you. Who could resist _this_ pretty face?"

Lee and George simultaneously rolled their eyes, before dissolving into hearty laughter. It was good, George mused, to be back.

* * *

Ron walked briskly down the corridor of St. Mungo's, bearing a hastily–taped package. The Healers there had gotten used to his frequent visits – _especially one in particular,_ Ron thought with a grimace as he remembered Madison. She was a particularly clingy Healer–in–training, and was notorious for laying it on thick whenever a remotely decent–looking bloke came by Mungo's. In fact, she had taken to doing obscure and irrelevant tasks near Hermione's ward during visiting hours – even though she was supposed to be shadowing a Healer on a completely different floor.

_At least Hermione hasn't noticed_, he mused. They had never discussed the situation with Lavender – and with good reason, too. Ron could only imagine Hermione's reaction towards their "relationship" and taunting displays of affection. If five minutes at a ball and a sketchy correspondence with Viktor Krum (_Vicky,_ he thought vehemently) could set him off, he was slightly afraid to witness her own temper tantrum. Balancing his package in one hand, he maneuvered the door handle to Hermione's ward open and kicked it carelessly so that it closed behind him.

"Oh Ron," Hermione began to chide. "That was _completely_ rude!"

Ron rolled his eyes affectionately, albeit discreetly. "Would you like me to go apologize to the door, Hermione?"

She huffed, and rolled her eyes as well – though she made no efforts to hide it. "Or to the janitor who will no doubt have to clean up that scuff mark you must have left."

"I'll owl him an apology letter," Ron said sarcastically, before he perched himself on the edge of her bed. "You feeling alright?"

"Loads better," she responded. "I'm going to have to do a bit of exercise each day with one of the Healers, though. I think I'll be getting massaged as well. Something about getting my muscles used to activity."

"Massaged?" Ron frowned. "Some bloke's going to put his hands all over you?"

"Yes, Ronald," Hermione answered sarcastically. "It's going to be a complete shag fest in here." When he didn't respond right away, she sighed. "At least I don't have Madison trailing after me like some sick puppy..."

Ron's eyebrows rose. "You've noticed?"

"Of course! It was the same exact look I gave you back when we went to Hogwarts. Albeit it was behind a rather impressive–looking book, mind you. And I definitely didn't make it _that_ obvious."

Ron looking up the ceiling miserably. "Oh Merlin, why didn't I ask you out sooner?"

Hermione grinned. "Actually, you didn't. Not appropriately, at least. I was the one who made the first move, remember? Does a kiss ring any bells?"

Ron smiled fondly at her. "Well, I reckon I'll have to make the move now to compensate for that, eh?"

She sucked in her breath at his blatantly flirty banter. "I suppose..." Swiftly cut off by his soft lips pressed urgently to hers, she swung an arm around his shoulders so that her hand rested on the nape of his neck. Hermione tangled her fingers in his hair, marveling at the soft locks.

When he pulled away from her slowly, she laughed weakly. "Remind me, Ron. Why didn't you lay one on me like that at school?"

"Because I'm a git – although a good–looking one." He flashed a smile in her direction.

She felt that familiar sensation in her stomach; the one that made her knees turn to putty and all coherent thought leave her mind. Shaking her head, she shoved him playfully. "Well, I'd be inclined to agree."

Ron smiled smugly. "If you've been giving me those love–sick looks since First Year, I'm sure you do."

"Hardly since First Year!" she scoffed. "Maybe Fourth Year..."

He dryly arched an eyebrow at her.

"Alright, alright," she said with a jovial laugh. "Third Year, you prat."

"Your _favorite_ prat, you mean," he said, pretending to look offended. "And you'll hardly even think I'm a prat when you see what I've brought you."

Her eyes brightened considerably at the package he had placed on the foot of her bed. "Let's have a look see, shall we?"

Removing the Spello–tape with his wand, he lifted the flaps of the cardboard box and gingerly revealed an orange shirt. Suddenly, his ears became crimson. "I brought you my Chudley Cannons shirt... you know, just in case you ever wanted to wear it..." He tapered off uncertainly.

Surprised at the gesture, she quickly wrapped her arms around him, enveloping him in a tight hug. "It's lovely," she said softly, her breath warm in his ear.

He relaxed somewhat in her embrace, before turning his head to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. The two sat there like that for a moment, before Ron reminded her that he had brought other things.

"Mum insisted that I bring you some food," he said, and removed a carton of Cornish pasties. "I made these myself."

"You cook?" Hermione said incredulously. She glanced at the pasties, looking thoroughly surprised. They were perfectly golden brown, and the edges were crimped. "Since when?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Just took it up with Mum a week or two ago. It's pretty fun. Sort of like Potions, actually, except you don't have some slimy git breathing down your neck the entire time."

Hermione smiled despite herself, setting the pasties aside. "What's this?" she murmured, lifting a book out of the box. The title read_ The Bell Jar_, and beneath it was another book. "You brought me books?" The shock was evident in her voice.

"Harry helped me pick it out," he said, removing the other text. "And I found this book of poetry by the same author, too. Supposedly it's one of the greatest ones known to mankind, or something."

Hermione thumbed through the pages of the novel, still surprised. "Wow," she muttered.

"Do you like it?"

"Well, you've gone from having an emotional range of a teaspoon to that of a teapot, no doubt," she responded. "I'm surprised that you picked Sylvia Plath out of all authors, though."

"The bird at the book shop said that she was a no–fuss kind of gal," Ron said. He nipped at her nose playfully with his thumb. "Kind of like you."

"She also committed suicide," Hermione said mildly. Upon seeing the look on Ron's face, she laughed and gave him a swift kiss. "But I love it all the same. Seriously – _The Bell Jar_ is supposed to be a classic."

Ron let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. "There's also this posh, French one." He handed her a massive–looking novel. "Unabridged, just the way you like it."

"_Les Misérables_?" The shock returned in Hermione's voice. In fact, now it was blatant on her face, as well. "Ron, how did you know?"

Ron shrugged, though he looked pleased with himself. "Don't thank me; thank the bird at the shop!"

She couldn't help but smile bashfully at Ron, who probably didn't even realize the magnitude of his actions. Leaning towards him, she pressed a soft, sensuous kiss to his lips. "I'd rather thank _you_."

He could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and sucked in a breath at their close proximity. They were in a bleeding _bed_, for Merlin's sake, and she was looking at him like he was her savior. _I rather like that look_, he thought to himself, before gently pushing her back towards the propped pillows and leaning tentatively towards her figure. Threading her fingers in his, he kissed her once more. Before he could pull away, she quickly brushed her tongue across the seam of his lips; it happened so fast that for a second he thought he imagined it.

When he finally did pull away, he pressed his forehead against hears, looking at her directly. "I love you, Hermione."

Smiling brightly, she cradled his face in her hands before kissing him once more. "And I love you, Ron. More than you could ever imagine."

The pasties, books, and the t–shirt were tossed aside carelessly. In fact, in that moment, they were completely forgotten. Hermione only had eyes for Ron, as did he for her. Slowly but surely, the seams were no longer unraveling. The pieces were being put back together, and in the midst of their pure happiness, it seemed that the identity of their attacker was no longer relevant. Nothing could change the fact that, for the time being, Hermione was very much whole and alive and completely mad for him.

Perhaps things would remain that way.

* * *

_A/N: Many apologies for the delayed update! I thought I'd compensate for it by ending this chapter on a happier - albeit ominous - note._

_Reviews, of course, are much appreciated._

_Also, I realized that a chapter was missing from this story - so that there were 28 chapters, instead of 29. I fixed the problem, however, so if anyone wants to go back and read chapter 4 (not that it's necessary), I believe it's different._


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